Farseeing
by Araloth the Random
Summary: Honouring their ancient promise, many Elves never left Middle-Earth's shores - though the situation is not without its problems. Aragorn's latest descendant doesn't believe in Elves, for starters. But then again, Lindir never believed in anything but music, and Legolas certainly never expected to like Instagram quite this much. [Part II begins today!]
1. Chapter 1

**Farseeing**

 **A/N:** Helloo thar! While working on my parody _Legolas Thranduillion's 30-Day Character Transformation_ , I realised that there was another idea that I've had in the pipeline for a few years. Which is having Elves in the modern world and dealing with the kinds of problems they might face in the 21st century, little or big or otherwise. Their survival in a world which might hurt them if they were discovered, their involvement with Mortal ventures, and just a touch of the supernatural...

(Also, my fanfic-writing attention span is pretty terrible. I can't seem to work on one thing at a time!)

 **This story follows the adventures of Aragorn's latest Heir in the 21st century, a history student who despite her general love of fantasy fiction never expected to discover that Elves were real. Scattered throughout history are hints that some remnants of a time long passed from Mortal knowledge are extant, too - including an ancient darkness that threatens to shatter the fragile peace of the Elves' lives...Lindir/OFC.**

This is going to be a little AU. There might be a few things that are are either a bit of a twist on what The Great Professor of Oxford wrote, or even in blatant opposition. You have been warned.

 **Please enjoy and don't forget to review!**

 _ **Year 122, Fourth Age**_

There was an oppressive silence that hung heavy, pall-like, over the white stone that rose around the procession which steadily wound its way downwards. Solemn faces, both Mortal and Eldarin, replaced the usually joyous ones that milled about the streets at this early hour. Shuffling feet upon cracks and pebbles, the occasional sob, the rustle of autumn winds divesting the trees of the last of their browned leaves.

It was the song of a city in mourning.

It didn't matter how many lives Lindir had seen lost to violence and bloodshed. He trailed along between Glorfindel and Erestor, still hardly able to believe it. After everything it was this death that felt the most unjust, precisely because its chooser had embraced it willingly.

Lily-white hands clasped older ones wet with weeping.

"Please, _adar_." Arwen's voice was filled with pleading.

"At last it comes to pass, and still I cannot let you go." Elrond's ragged voice shook with a bitterness so seldom heard that it was enough to move even stoic Erestor. Lindir himself looked away, not wanting Gondor's queen to see his weakness. She had been strong enough for all of them. The last thing she needed was to see all of Rivendell, all of the White City, weeping at her imminent passing.

But an unexpected smile lit her beautiful face. Death's ghostly pallour was in her voice, her hands - had been there since the passing of King Elessar, once known as Aragorn of the Dunedain. But there was life still in her eyes.

"We will never leave one another for as long as you hold to what I shall ask of you."

Elrond chuckled and wiped his eyes. "So many promises have I made throughout the years, what is one more from my beloved daughter?"

"You have pledged your service to the Hither Lands so that our people will ever have aid." For all the sadness of the day, Arwen's smile held - for just one moment - the last hints of a fast-fleeing mischief. "While you're busy doing that, I want you to look after my children."

And when Lindir dared lift his head to steal a glance at his lord's face, he saw a hope there that turned his grief to new purpose, and all of Rivendell's people followed him.

OoO

CHAPTER ONE

It was a good night for a party, and maybe under different circumstances, Fiona would have heartily agreed. With the summer heat lingering well into the night, most of the denizens of Melbourne found it easier to stay up late and crank up the tunes rather than try to sleep in sheets still soaked with sweat from the night before.

As it turned out, Fiona was passed out on her bed, still in her work clothes. Only a thin sliver of streetlight had made it through the half-drawn curtains when her eyes stiffly creaked open. Yawning, she groped about on the little table next to her bed for her phone and checked the time.

Eleven PM. Her eyes widened. _Wow. How long have I been asleep?_

She lay still for a few moments, staring at the darkened ceiling before finally hauling herself out of bed. Her stomach lauded the move with an approving grumble. Definitely time for food, especially after such a long shift. Quietly she tiptoed down the hall, fumbling for the light switch when she reached the lounge room.

There, the horror awaited her.

Shot glasses littered almost every flat surface. The heavy smell of pizza leftovers lay thickly on the air, the source of which sat in open boxes on the coffee table and the worn green of the carpet. Her inner history nerd hyperventilated at the sight of yet more sticky glasses sacrilegiously lining the painted Victorian mantelpiece.

 _What even—_

She jumped at the violent crunch that broke from beneath her foot, and looking downwards found a sadly shattered corn chip. Shaking her foot to try and get all the crumbs off, Fiona stumbled her way into the kitchen. Apparently, she thought ruefully, the fact that she had completely died for a few hours meant that her housemates had full opportunity to desecrate the lounge room.

The day's heat still lingered about the place, stifling and oppressive. As she passed she gave their ancient ruin of an air conditioner a wistful glance and wiped away the little sweat moustache forming beneath her nose. The poor thing had finally given up on life a few days ago. Just in time for a heat wave too. She stopped in front of the fridge, staring pensively at it before pulling out her phone and thumbing idly through her Facebook feed to try and distract herself from the fact that neither her crappy _Kalehouse_ café wages, nor Mackenzie's, nor Ryan's, nor Sebastian's, would be enough to pay to fix it.

It kind of sucked, being perpetually broke.

Increasingly often, the thought of moving out had been surfacing every time she found more mess in the lounge room, or every time something broke that none of them had the money to fix. Wonder what Dad would say to that, she mused, distractedly saving a funny Lord of the Rings Tumblr reblog to her phone. _Give up the independent life. Move over to the US and do Honours over there. It would be nice to actually be able to afford coffee again._

She put her phone down and rested her elbows on the table, rubbing her eyes as she felt a headache begin pulsing dully behind them. Maybe it wouldn't have been a bad idea to have followed her dad over there to begin with - but that was half the problem. Living with an absentminded-professor-type dad who spent long hours burying old grief in study meant that she was the one who usually made the wiser decisions. The embarrassing thing was that she had been the one who had begged to stay in Australia instead of moving overseas with Dean and going to an American college. Because she'd thought it best at the time.

And now, here she was, with her bank account looking less happy by the day, in a beautiful old house that her loveable yet thoughtless housemates frequently trashed, and without any certainty as to whether she would have the means to finish her degree. For the first time her careful planning was unraveling faster than she could keep up with it, and she was less and less sure of where she was going or what she was doing anymore.

 _I didn't have all these problems in high school_ , she thought dejectedly, wondering when her evening had taken such a depressing turn. _Welcome to adulthood, Fiona Lockwood._

The dull ache in her head began to take on a rhythmic, pounding quality. Urgent, almost.

Ugh. Someone was knocking at the door.

She turned and glared grumpily at the sound, but it seemed to make no difference - the insistent rapping continued. Letting an annoyed sigh slowly escape through her nose, she stomped over to the door as the thumping continued and tried not to scowl so hard that the words _piss off_ appeared in the air.

Wicking away sweat from her forehead, she swung the door open.

It was no secret that Mackenzie liked a good night out, and so Fiona hardly batted an eyelid when she found her friend there on the doorstep, slumped all over a rather tall figure who was clearly the only thing keeping her upright. The stranger cleared this throat apologetically as Mackenzie poked at one of his shirt buttons experimentally. "Is this number 20? There appears to be no number on your letterbox."

Taken aback by the unexpectedly lyrical tones of his voice, Fiona blinked and stood aside as he shuffled up the step and pushed past her with Mackenzie mumbling incoherently. "Where did you find her?"

"Out on the street, trying to hail down a booze bus," answered the guy wryly as he deposited Mackenzie on the couch. A long fall of straight chestnut hair obscured his face from view as he knelt and gently began removing her stained bright pink heels. "That probably wouldn't have gone down too nicely. So I asked her where she lived and here we are."

Fiona groaned. "That's at least the third time this last month she's come home with some guy!" Some corner of her whispered that she was being petulant, but she was too tired and full of rising headache to bother with politeness. She plonked into a chair and threw her hands up in frustration. "And then there was that time she needed her stomach pumped—why am I never awake when—"

"She is indeed fairly intoxicated, but I do not believe that her stomach will need any tampering with," came the light response. He pointedly ignored her implied accusation. "Her shoes, on the other hand, may need to be placed in the circular filing cabinet. One of the heels has become detached."

As he held up a shoe in demonstration, he met her gaze.

And his brown eyes widened in recognition.

Fiona leapt to her feet, heart in her throat. Not only because that flash of emotion in his eyes was so stark she thought she might forget to breathe. Not only because there was a strange beauty and some sort of power that almost rippled off him in waves. Memories suddenly surged at the edge of her consciousness, annoyingly out of reach. The thought hit her: _I've seen him before._ Where _could_ she have seen him before? He looked like—

 _Holy—He's Flynn Rider, with long hair._

She jumped when sudden guttural Dwarven chanting from the Flight from Moria burst out ridiculously from her phone in the next room. A quick glance revealed that the eyes of Mackenzie's rescuer betrayed none of his earlier comprehension. She shook her head. _I must be losing the plot._ "Um—would you mind if I—?"

His response was to smile and incline his head.

She scampered off into the kitchen, feeling oddly childlike and grateful to be safely out from under that intense gaze. Something about him spoke of something way older than Disney. With his long hair and beautiful face he looked like he'd just finished shooting a scene from _The Hobbit_ and was off to grab coffee with a few models.

 _Seriously, where did Mackenzie find this guy?_

OoO

Fiona had no idea that her evening was about to get a whole lot weirder.

It turned out her dad had a strange request to make of her.

Fiona blinked when he had finished. "…What?"

"Seeing-stones. You know the ones."

" _Palantíri_?" she said, incredulously. "But—"

"Think about it." He was excited now. Of course he was - his passion for history was what kept him buried in research at the American university he worked at. "At the heart of every legend is some kind of long-forgotten truth, some distortion of memory – you know this from all the studying you've done. The reality is that, behind every tale you've ever heard about magical objects through which one can see things far away, is a truth that very little of recorded human history hints at in any substantial way. Old, and forged from unknown material by arts long lost to the world, and lost to mortal memory."

"Yeah, that would be because there probably _is_ no truth behind it," said Fiona tiredly, wondering why Dean was calling her in the middle of the night to talk about seeing-stones. "Wouldn't there be something more than a few hints throughout all of recorded human history if something as weird and otherworldly like a _palantír_ existed?"

"There are," said her dad mildly. "They just happen not to be in recorded _human_ history. I know a few people who could probably produce enough first-hand evidence for it. One of them happens to be the reason we're trying to find one in the first place. Remember those independent researchers from the UK that I may or may not have mentioned earlier?"

Slumping in defeat, Fiona stopped picking at the crumbling wood of the table's edge. It was no use attempting a serious conversation when her dad was bursting with enthusiasm over something or other. She suppressed a sigh. "Yeah."

"You'll like this. Every one of them goes by a pseudonym of some sort – I suppose they have to, when they're out and about amongst the rest of us. One of them goes in private by the name of Legolas Thranduillion."

All thought of moving to the US vanished. "Who?"

"Oh, you can't tell me you haven't heard _that_ name before. Don't you have plenty of Tolkien things floating around on that ridiculously overstuffed bookshelf of yours?"

"W-well, yes," she stammered, bewildered. "But none of them say that it's _real_."

"I suppose they wouldn't," said Dean pensively. "I highly doubt that either Legolas or any of the others would be too keen on letting the world know of their existence now, especially when they've successfully managed to elude the prying eyes of Mortals for the last few thousand years."

 _A few thousand years? I think I need to sit down_ , Fiona thought weakly, sinking down into a chair. She propped her aching head up in one hand and squeezed her eyes shut. "A bunch of crazy cosplaying historians are trying to get you to look for a lost rock?"

"Of course not!" snapped Dean, sounding affronted. "They're looking for it themselves. And it's not a lost rock. It's a _palantír._ "

"You didn't deny that they were crazy cosplayers."

"I am perfectly serious, Fiona. This is an incredible opportunity - not everyone gets to meet people who have lived through so many historically significant events. Besides, don't you want to meet a real Elf?"

Her eyes stayed closed against the pain in her head as she struggled to gather her thoughts. She should have seen it coming. Clearly, between their last conversation and this one, something had happened and her father had finally gone round the bend.

It wasn't the first time. Her mind flashed worriedly through a few images of her dad being hospitalised. Bipolar apparently did that sometimes.

Realising that she was going to have to try and gently tell him that whatever he was talking about was not real made her heart sink.

"Alright." Fiona took a deep breath. "Dad, I can't just jet off to the UK. There's still another semester to go, and I have too much to do to just drop everything to go play with the Elves."

"You'll not be just playing with the Elves, sweetheart. While you're there, you'll be with family. Believe me," he added with a bitter-sounding laugh, "when your mother told me she was related to a bunch of otherworldly creatures, I thought she'd gone right off her rocker. Her own father had had a falling-out with Lord Elrond, and it was only about two or three years before she—she passed away that Miriam began tentatively reaching out towards her estranged relatives again." He cleared his throat awkwardly and fell silent. It was difficult for him to talk about Miriam without regret creeping into his tone.

Fiona tried to absorb all the information he had just thrown at her. "Um, thank you for telling me," she said, trying to be sensitive. "Just…who am I related to, exactly?"

"Lord Elrond, I think. You're one of his descendants in some way. Through Aragorn, I believe. Anyway," he continued, apparently oblivious to the fact that on the other side of the world his daughter's jaw was falling open, "I'll have to talk to you more about it later. I have an absolute stack of first-year papers to mark."

"But—"

"Talk soon, Fiona!" he said cheerfully, and hung up.

 _Well, thanks for that, Dad_ , Fiona groused silently, plopping her phone onto the table. She glared at it sullenly for a few moments, turning his bewildering words over in her mind.

A small part of her suggested quietly, hopefully, that maybe she should give what Dean had told her some consideration and call him back in the morning, when she had had the chance to sleep. None of it was real, probably. Yet the idea stirred her anyway.

And a much larger part of her grimly ordered her to take stock of reality. She needed more work to pay the rent. She needed to study as hard as she could during her last semester to keep up her marks and get into postgrad history. No amount of hoping would sweep worries like that under the rug.

Shaking her head, she remembered where she was, and that her friend needed her. Cautiously, she poked her head back into the lounge room, where she knew Mackenzie had probably passed out by now. A quiet murmuring made her look up at the tall young man whose long fingers rested upon her forehead.

A curtain of sleep descended upon her, so subtly that she hardly noticed, and something in those strange words washed away the throbbing in her head and spoke of…something…old forests shrouded in grey mists, and hills blanketed in—

He pushed his hair back, and Fiona snapped out of exhaustion straight away. She stared in disbelief.

It was - it just couldn't be -

One pointed ear was peeking out from behind the chestnut locks.

And she could have sworn that he was glowing in the dimly-lit Victorian parlour. No, he was _definitely_ glowing. Muted light suffused his face, his hands.

He half-turned at Fiona's gasp, startled.

"Oh my gods," she breathed.

* * *

 **I admit I'm a little nervous posting this, as I don't often write non-parodies! Reviews be appreciated. :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Anonymous reviewers:**

Archer: Wow, thank you for the compliments! I hope that as the story unfolds that it will turn out as enjoyable as your, er, foresight shows. :P Thank you for reviewing!

OoO

CHAPTER TWO

There was an Elf in her room.

His lips were moving, but the words fell onto the ears of a girl entirely lost in a bizarre twilight zone.

For a moment the Elf regarded her wide-eyed, with the astonishment she herself felt in the hammering of her heart. Clearly he'd recovered from that first moment of shock, though, because he was addressing her casually as though they'd known one another all their lives. Any hint of surprise had vanished.

"Uh...sorry, what?" she heard herself asking, not hearing a word, only responding because his mouth wasn't moving anymore.

His voice was low and patient as he repeated himself. "Would you happen to have a receptacle of some kind on hand?"

"...What?"

"A bucket. Or anything that might be useful for ensuring that the contents of your friend's stomach don't end up on the carpet along with the pizza."

"Oh! Um…" Fiona glanced around quickly, her eyes lighting upon an empty box of Two Minute Noodles before she decided against it and dashed into the laundry. There was indeed a bucket there, with someone's clothes soaking in it; she tossed the lot into the sink and hurried back, almost tossing him the bucket just in time for Mackenzie to lean over the side of the couch and vomit explosively.

 _I feel like I'm in a surreal fantasy sitcom_ , thought Fiona, almost feeling her eyes glaze over as they vaguely followed his movements, all grace and lean muscle. His words of reassurance sounded muffled in her ears. _Either he's got a torch shoved up his top or he really_ is _not human. Of course the first time I meet a fantasy creature he's in my lounge room cleaning up bile. I can almost hear the canned laughter._

As out-of-it as Mackenzie was, the fact that she was being tended to by someone who could just as easily have been shooting deer in an enchanted wood as wandering the streets of Melbourne hadn't escaped her. A half-amused, half-horrified Fiona watched as Mackenzie gave him a drunken smile and grabbed at his shirt.

"Thaggyou," she mumbled, wiping her mouth and absently dabbing her wet hand against his sleeve.

"Thank you, but you can keep that," he said hastily, trying to extricate himself from her clutches. His eyes turned to Fiona. "I think this might be a good time to move her to her room. May I count on your assistance?"

"Oh. Sure. Um - if you pick her up, I'll clear the way and point you in the right direction."

"A wise plan. Whenever you're ready."

He actually talked, as well as simply existed, and it sounded like music. That was a fact that would take some getting used to. Fiona tried to slow the beating of her heart as she moved shot glasses and booted pizza boxes out of the way, the Elf having unceremoniously slung Mackenzie over his shoulder. Her friend snored in merry oblivion as they went.

That was it. There was only one solution for a situation like this.

That was how the Elf found her - sitting in her rumpled work uniform at the table, fingers tucked beneath her seat to keep her grip on reality. And staring at a packet of Tim Tams, half of which were missing. Mostly because she'd mindlessly wolfed them down.

Fiona dared to lift her eyes as he wordlessly sank into a chair across from her.

The word _fair_ , as Tolkien would have put it, didn't seem to do him justice. Long, straight hair tumbling free over his shoulders, high cheekbones, dark eyes. Leanly-muscled arms beneath his shirt. A strange aura that spoke of wisdom and some power beyond her understanding or experience.

They sat there for a while in perfect stillness, staring at one another, before Fiona found herself breaking the silence.

"Uh, so. _Mae govannen_ ," she managed.

A smile ghosted over his exotic features, and crinkled his eyes a little at the corners. It was beautiful to look at, just like the rest of him. "Well-met indeed, under the circumstances. I little thought that this was how our first encounter would come about, but I'm glad to have finally had the pleasure."

She blinked in surprise. "Wait - you already know who I am?"

He looked at her incredulously. "Of course. You're one of the Heirs of the House of Telcontar, and therefore of the line of Lúthien herself. Those of us who linger still in this world won't easily forget something that important."

He calmly sat back in his chair and watched for her reaction, and Fiona hoped he wasn't disappointed. She was sure she needed to pick her jaw up off the floor. Those names - they spoke of a pretty damn impressive lineage, and her mind flatly rejected the idea that she herself had anything to do with it.

At that point, she noticed for the first time that her headache had completely disappeared. "This is going to sound nuts, but did you talk my headache away back there?"

"Did I?" he countered. "I'm glad that your head is no longer troubling you, but I won't lie – that was purely by accident. It was more for the benefit of your friend." He leaned forward as he spoke, head cocked to one side, as though he were as curious about her as she was about him. Fiona caught the scent of rain.

 _Wow. He even smells nice._

Not that she was going to tell him that.

Lindir spoke next. "You must have many questions. I'm told that you know very little about us."

A small noise escaped her, which could have been a laugh or a sob. "Um, well, that would be an understatement. My dad only told me about the existence of Elves literally minutes ago. That's—I know, not how you use the word 'literally'—but um, I had no idea. Still have no idea. Of why no one ever told me, why, if you're real, you aren't in the Blessed Realm. Or why you want me on your research team, or why you even have a research team to begin with." Aware that she was babbling, she wiped her hands - which hadn't stopped sweating, it seemed - against her black work pants.

"Well, I suppose now would be a good time for introductions," conceded the Elf. He shrugged. "Let us forget that I have vomit on my shirt and pretend that we're meeting under more auspicious conditions."

Fiona couldn't help a laugh despite her discomfort with the whole situation. He had such a weird and dry way of expressing himself. "Okay, I can do that. Uh, so who am I talking to?"

"In the Mortal world, my name is Lindsay Harris." His dark-eyed gaze met hers across the table, almost glittering. "To the Eldar, and to all who name themselves Elf-friends, I am Lindir of Imladris, chief minstrel and friend to Master Elrond Peredhel."

"Lindir?" So she wasn't only just talking to an Elf, she was talking to a famous one. "Oh man. My introduction's going to sound pretty paltry next to that."

"Not at all." He smiled at her encouragingly, eyes crinkling at little at the corners again. "As I said, your own lineage is hardly less remarkable. If I can claim any renown whatsoever, it is only because I featured in a certain trilogy for all of three sentences. Now, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"Uh. My name is Fiona Lockwood, history student and big fantasy geek." She doubted she could have come up with anything more eloquent even if she'd been prepared for it.

"And the King's Daughter," pointed out the minstrel of Imladris.

"That part I'm still struggling with a bit." _He's an Elf. I'm related to Aragorn and Elrond and probably a few notable others. Got it._ She hoped that she wasn't grimacing while making an effort to still her swirling thoughts. _Gods, this sounds like a bad fanfiction._ Her teenage self would have jumped up and down for the chance to speak with a real, live Elf. Now that there was one sitting before her and patiently waiting for the barrage of questions her past self would undoubtedly have had, she had no idea where to start.

She decided to try for something innocuous first. "Here is my first question," she said, clearing her throat.

"Go ahead."

"Are you hungry at all?"

Lindir grinned this time. "Something tells me that _you_ certainly are."

Feeling her face grow warm, Fiona shrugged in embarrassment. "I really am. I'm starving, and I get super hungry when I'm under pressure, and I don't always feel comfortable stuffing my face while other people are talking."

And as if to punctuate that remark, her stomach let out a loud gurgle of protest.

As he gave a cough, she realised with annoyance that he was stifling his amusement. "You need never feel uncomfortable about—stuffing your face—around me." He solemnly took a Tim Tam and examined it in the fluorescent light. "Australians and their chocolate biscuits. This is one thing I have certainly missed about being here. No, no—don't get up. Sharing this fine cuisine with the King's Daughter in the early hours of the morning is one opportunity I will not pass up."

With that, he proceeded to indelicately shove the entire biscuit into his mouth and wolf it down.

Fiona burst out laughing. If she had had any expectations of what an Elf might be like before meeting this one, it was not this. She nudged the packet of Tim Tams closer. "That actually makes me feel better. So Elves don't mind eating all the sugary crap we produce?"

"Not at all," came the cheerful reply as Lindir reached for another one. "We do share roughly the same taste buds and physical characteristics, which means that enjoyment of junk food is not completely excluded from our diets."

"I always thought Elves were more into…natural sort of stuff." Fiona made an expansive gesture. "Tolkien always wrote about them—you, I mean—as being almost inseparable from nature. Water, trees, that sort of stuff."

"That is true enough, though I've never eaten a tree before. I'm sure we do have much more exciting things to talk about other than Elven digestive tracts, however, so might I venture to suggest that if you have more questions, you may want to ask them now while you are still conscious?"

"Good point." Encouraged by Lindir's warmth, she let go the grip that her fingers had on her chair and leaned forward with her elbows. "I guess…what are you still doing in Middle-Earth? Or whatever part of Middle-Earth Australia is in? I thought Tolkien wrote that you all left gradually over the centuries following the destruction of the Ring. The fact that you're here kind of contradicts that source."

"Spoken like a true historian." His long fingers clasped together and rested in front of him against the wood. "The explanation for that is a long one, and the reasons are many and varied according to whom you ask. The simplest one is this, however. It is true that many of the Eldar who lingered began to leave. But many of them had lived in Middle-Earth for long years uncounted, and could not bear to leave its shores and the realms we had worked so hard to build to simply end up being reclaimed by nature or lost to time. Not that our remaining behind really helped all that much, anyway," he added with a sigh, rubbing his forehead.

Fiona's hands gripped her chair. "What do you mean?"

"The Middle-Earth we knew at the time of the Third Age has changed vastly. Nothing has remained in the same place, thanks to various natural upheavals. Legolas and Faramir's shared realm of Ithilien was claimed long ago by tangled forest, and that in turn was cleared by Men centuries ago to make room for settlements. The Halls of the Elvenking are no more. I believe Mount Doom is now known as Vesuvius, looming over the ruins of Pompeii. It is certainly still an ill-fated area."

"Wow," murmured Fiona. Silently she tried to let it sink in. _Being tied inseparably to the world and being forced to watch everything you ever worked for just collapse around you - I don't think that's something that someone Mortal would ever fully understand. We just don't live long enough for that to happen._

"In a way, maybe it's a good thing that most of it is gone," said Lindir. "Those of us who are still here are burdened with the rather pesky task of concealing ourselves from an increasingly invasive world. Nostalgic the Elven race may be, but quite pragmatic too at need."

"What about Rivendell? That was your home, wasn't it?"

"Indeed it was, and that, too, has disappeared. But," he added, turning bright eyes towards her, "we have preserved it in our own way. Imladris survived in its second incarnation, and has been there for thousands of years. Moreover, it is at the site of what used to be Lindon – where ever there were Elves lingering upon its coasts." He flung out a hand with an expression that was half-amused, half-frustrated. "Of all the places we built, of all the wide realms we ruled, the land filled with what you might call Elven hippies was the one that survived."

"Lindon is still there?" whispered Fiona, only half-aware that she must have been leaning so far out of her seat that she was nearly squashing the Tim Tams. "The land beyond the Ered Luin?"

"I see that we're going to have to work on your Elvish pronunciation, but that land precisely." She felt a surge of irritation, but a glance at the erstwhile minstrel of Rivendell revealed that his smile was gently teasing. "Did your father really not speak about us to you at all?" he added, a little more seriously. "Or your mother? It's through her that we are able to claim kinship, after all."

"Um…no, neither of them told me – with the exception of Dad sort of just putting it out there this evening. He mentioned that Mum only kind of reconnected with her Elven heritage a few years before the accident." She rested her tired head in her palms. "My mum has an Elven heritage. I'm related to Aragorn. I must be going out of my mind. I half expect to blink and find that you're not there and I'm just talking to myself like a crazy person." Her voice sounded muffled. _If this is all just a stupid dream I don't know whether I'll laugh or cry when I wake up. Too much crazy for one evening._

Warm hands were encasing her own the next minute, jolting her out of her thoughts, entreating her to come out from behind them. "If you let me interrupt for a moment, Fiona," said Lindir gently, his musician's voice so soothing that she could not help but follow it. Hesitantly, she looked up into his searching gaze. "I notice that you have been alternating between staring at me and avoiding the sight of me throughout this entire conversation. Might you tell me why this is so?"

Fiona squirmed. "Shock, maybe? I don't know. I just—obviously you don't expect something you read in a fantasy novel years ago to come to life."

"And?"

"And…" _And an Elf is touching me, and it's getting weird._ "And this whole evening has been weird and intense."

He raised an elegant brow at her. "Is that your way of saying that I, too, am weird and intense?"

"I—no, I mean—"

Lindir let go of her hands and regarded her solemnly. "Perhaps you are not used to the kind of frank conversation that Elves have among one another, especially so when speaking with family. You are allowed to be honest, you know. Besides," he added, "I have certainly been called worse things than weird. So, Fiona Lockwood, tell me what you really think."

"And you're not going to get offended?"

"I promise."

"Alrighty." She took a deep breath. "I feel really plain, and really small, and young, and just a bit of an idiot next to you. You've obviously got so much experience, and you're immortal and I'm not, and there's obviously a hell of a lot that I don't know about you or Middle-Earth or anything, really. I've probably been staring because I've never seen an Elf before, much less believed that they were real, and at the same time I've been trying not to stare because I don't want to feel any dumber than I already do." She let out the breath she had been holding. Unexpectedly, she realised that a weight she didn't even know had been there had been lifted. _There really is something to be said for just saying what you think._

Looking up, she saw an approval on Lindir's face that made her flush. _No way am I going to tell him that the other reason I've been staring is that he's prettier than any male has a right to be._

"See? That wasn't so hard." Brandishing a Tim Tam at her, he added, "By the way, I would not entirely discount the idea of your _not_ being immortal. Occasionally hiccups seem to happen in the Line of Telcontar and for whatever reason some descendants are not numbered among the Race of Men. You also do have some ancestors who married among the Eldar and thus revived that particular strain. At the very least, you will probably live quite a long time beyond what is usually expected of Mortals. Just letting you know."

 _What? On top of everything else I've learned this evening I'm now not even sure how long my own lifespan is?_ "That's not what Tolkien said," she said slowly, heart hammering.

"Maybe not, but it is the truth nonetheless. What he did say – and what our own historians affirm – was that it was promised to Lúthien that her line should never die. Whatever has happened in the meantime, that promise has held true."

"Oh." _I really don't know what to say to that._ What was there to say? Far too much information had been flung at her over the course of an hour for her to make a coherent response. And not knowing who she was anymore was just scary. Her stomach felt like a clothes dryer spinning with butterflies while her head ached with exhaustion. Moving to speak, she instead involuntarily let out a long yawn.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry! I'm not bored, I promise."

"I believe you, but I also believe that you are wearied." Dusting the crumbs from his fingers, he said, "I'm sure we will be able to continue our conversation in the morning. Or, well, later in the morning. I believe it is past one o'clock." He stretched. "There are a great many things that we need to discuss and now is not the time to do it. You will need sleep, and there are a few individuals I must speak with ere dawn."

Fiona opened her mouth to protest, but thought the better of it when he rose to his feet in one fluid movement and made his way swiftly to the door. She trailed along in his wake, marvelling and internally squeeing at the fact that he'd used the phrase _ere dawn_. It was ridiculously Tolkien-esque.

She watched as he stepped outside into the still-warm summer air. Tiny insects flitted about in the yellowing light emanating from the bulb hanging over the porch. The Elf turned to face her.

"I hope I'm not leaving you feeling as though I have just dragged you on a long trek through the bush. I'm afraid you've had far too much thrown at you this night."

"I—no, thank you," Fiona said. "For explaining so much, and for being nice and eating Tim Tams at one in the morning with me. And for that truly terrible Australian analogy."

"It wasn't that bad, surely. And as for the first point, I honestly do not think I had much of a choice. Tim Tams with the King's Daughter or heading back to the hotel by myself." He weighed an invisible scale with his hands. Laughter danced behind his eyes. Young, and yet so old.

"You speak about me as if I were important. And that's…a really nice thing to know." Fiona folded her arms across her chest, even though there wasn't the slightest hint of chill in the air. _Way to make this take a turn for the angsty, Fiona._

If Lindir noticed her embarrassment at all he said nothing. "Everyone is important in their own way, trite as that sounds," he replied, kindly. "And especially kin. You will find that all of New Imladris will be delighted to make your acquaintance, if you so choose to visit us." The inflection suggested an unspoken question. "It truly was a pleasure to meet you, Fiona Lockwood."

He turned to go again. Fiona nearly stumbled out the door after him in confusion. "But how am I going to meet all these Elves? You're the only one I've met and I've got no idea how to get in contact with them."

"We have our ways," he replied, simply. "By morning you'll have an answer to that, but you must allow me to make the necessary calls first. Worry not, daughter of House Telcontar."

He disappeared into the night, somehow managing to blend with both shadow and orange streetlight with the kind of ease that left Fiona wondering whether Elves could work more magic than the Professor had credited them with.

And that was how Fiona Lockwood found herself in Wales a mere three days later.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Sunlight awoke Fiona hours later, and still the early March heat filled her room. _I am not made for this weather_ , she thought wearily, gazing at the ceiling with eyes half lidded. Was it really morning already?

All night she had flitted in and out of hazy dreams about Lord of the Rings, strangers with impossible grace and beautiful faces, dark stones, and her dad bizarrely popping up here and there.

Eventually crawling out from beneath the thin sheet, she peered out the window at the bright sun already glinting from windows and gutters. The curious sight of dignified Victorian townhouses sitting between modern high-rises was as familiar and real to her as the smell of her father's old leather books, and made her question whether last night hadn't just been a load of heat-induced weirdness produced by her overtired brain.

That packet of Tim Tams still sitting innocently on the table, glimpsed from the corner of her eye as she padded into the kitchen, told her otherwise. Next to them her phone sat miraculously undisturbed from the previous night, when she had tiredly gone to bed right after. Undisturbed, that is, except for the badly-angled selfie that Ryan had made into her lock screen.

She had one of two choices as to what she believed. Either Ryan had been having chocolate biscuits for breakfast while plastering his face all over her lock screen - which was not impossible, given his sweet tooth - or she really had sat up late at night with the famed musician of Rivendell. Who, by the way, had told her that her Elvish was terrible.

A quick peek on the way to the bathroom revealed that Mackenzie was still asleep, dark hair sprawled all over the pillow and contentedly snoring.

A while later Fiona climbed out of the shower, startling herself with the reflection that stared back at her from the stained old mirror. _Descendant of Lúthien? More like a descendant of Meriadoc Brandybuck._ Red-brown and rather tangled curls flopped this way and that down her back. A wide mouth. Her face, pallid from lack of sleep, made the smattering of freckles across her nose stand out all the more starkly. Despite that she grinned at herself. _Add some fluff to my feet and I'll fit right in at Hobbiton._

Throwing on a faded green t-shirt and a pair of shorts she headed back into the kitchen to make breakfast, phone in hand. She wasn't sure why she wanted to keep it there, but part of her was almost hoping that someone would call her.

A hope that came to fruition rather quickly. Dwarven chanting suddenly erupted from the phone and it nearly flew out of her hands. The caller ID proclaimed that it was a private number - a fact which only set her heart pounding.

She took a deep breath first to compose herself. "Hello?" she croaked.

"Fiona, is it?" The voice sounded much younger than she had been expecting. There was no placing that accent, either. _Some sort of British?_ "This is Alun Glynn calling from Pembrokeshire, Wales." _Ah. There it is._ "Lindsay Harris called earlier and told me that he'd met you last night. I must say, it was surprising news. Dean spoke to you about coming to the UK to study, yes? Apparently to that end we are meant to organise a get-together of some kind."

His voice was pleasant to listen to, and suffused with warm enthusiasm. Fiona blinked in surprise. "Wow. He wasn't kidding when he said things would happen quickly. Did you just say that your surname was Glynn?"

"Indeed I did. We are related, though honestly I'm not entirely sure how. Elrond has a ridiculously big tome of family histories and genealogies somewhere in his back library that I'm sure will explain all the whithertos and whyfores."

 _His back library? Just how many libraries does he have?_ "I have to ask you something," she said, sitting down. "How did you get my number? I don't remember giving it to Lindir."

"Oh, that? He contacted your father, who quite happily gave it to us. I hope you don't mind."

Lindir had to have made a hell of a lot of calls last night. Remembering his words about hiding from an invasive world, Fiona wondered that these people didn't seem to have any concept of personal space. "Um, no. I don't mind." _Well, a little, but I'm not going to tell you that._

"Good. So, Fiona. I'll assume your dad told you something about our latest venture."

"A little bit. He said something about looking for a _palantír_ , but he didn't explain who exactly, or what for. Are you one of the researchers?"

"I was indeed a researcher, in a past life," said Alun, sounding rather wistful. "I'm aiding the endeavour - indeed, I can hardly keep out of it - but my current efforts are mostly swallowed up administrating New Imladris' financial empire."

"The Elves have a financial empire?" echoed Fiona sceptically.

"Yes, of a kind. Our company has a hand in all sorts of things - like an umbrella corporation that supervises other ventures. Publishing. Filmmaking and supporting the creative arts industries. Funding conventions and charities and research projects. You may have heard of them, actually. Mensa Rotunda _._ "

 _Mensa Rotunda_ , she repeated mentally. Rapidly flipping through her rudimentary Latin skills, she translated it in her head. "The Round Table?" she ventured tentatively.

"Correct. Currently twelve members comprise the Board of Directors, of which I am one."

"Like the twelve knights. That's…very poetic."

"Mensa Rotunda is very old." There was the sound of a door hesitantly creaking open, and a question that Fiona didn't quite catch. "No, I do not need a coffee. I'm quite awake." A pause. "Oh, alright. One sugar, a splash of milk. Do please close the door on your way out. Thank you. Yes, the company itself existed long before the world began running on banking and stocks and intangible monetary goods."

A thrill of excitement coursed through her. Anything that smacked of the old and the unknown captured her immediate interest. "How long before?"

"Put it this way. The original Round Table? That's us." He paused. "Though much altered in form, of course. Various members have come and gone since the Fourth Age – some leaving Oversea, some relinquishing their positions and coming back later. Appearances must be kept up for Mortal Men as much as possible."

"Wait, wait, wait. So you're saying that the Round Table existed _before_ Arthur? And it's basically been full of Elves? Where do all the legends come from, then? Did Arthur even exist?" Her mind was spinning with questions. _Oh man. I am so glad I read up on my Arthurian stuff over the summer._

There was a chuckle from Alun. "Let's start with the first one, shall we? Yes, the Round Table existed before Arthur. An alliance of Men and Elves, Men of many kinds united with the Eldar who remained in Middle-Earth. You may not be aware of this, but even when Sauron was robbed irrevocably of his power after the destruction of the Ring, there was still a vague uneasiness when the euphoria had passed. Obviously everyone was more than relieved that this great threat to Middle-Earth had been overthrown and dispossessed forever, but the question was raised: How can we trust that this will never happen again? After all, even when the first Dark Lord had been cast into the Void, centuries later who should show up but his servant, Sauron the Nutter?"

"That's one title I've never heard attributed to him," said Fiona, hastily dusting crumbs from the corners of her mouth. Not caring that Alun couldn't see her, she didn't want to let him know that she was happily munching away during his speech.

"Yes, it's rather less poetic than the rest of his titles, isn't it? Nevertheless, the concern that somehow an overlooked servant of the darkness would slip through undetected to rise again later was a very real one. Especially when the victory was won almost by accident. In past ages, the watch had slackened, and evil had quietly found its foothold before anyone even noticed. Notable incidents obviously included the Fall of Númenor, the unnamed Necromancer of Mirkwood and the re-occupation of Mordor. Something else was needed."

"So…the Men of Gondor and Rohan made a deal with the Elves? To keep an eye out for anything that looked kind of off?"

"Yes – but not just the Men of Gondor and Rohan. Men of Harad, Khand and even Rhûn occasionally sat on what is now the Board at various times, depending on the level of trust their kings and queens happened to have of the Elves at the time, as well as their level of interest. All of which changed with the seasons. Ah, a pause. You didn't see that coming, did you?"

"I—no." Fiona shook her head, despite the fact that Alun still couldn't see her. He was right, though. She had forgotten that Middle-Earth was vast, and extended far beyond the West. The thought that the countries far to the east and south might share some common interests with Gondor was not one which had occurred to her before.

It was not the first time that she realised just how much she had to learn. Geek or no, her understanding seemed to have more than a few gaps in it.

"You see," explained Alun, "the western part of Middle-Earth always had more interracial dealings than anywhere else, due to the fact that both mortal and immortal alike were wanderers, in the early days. It was inevitable that they'd meet and mingle."

"That makes sense."

"Yes. Before ever the sun rose the Elves divided in two, and then split off at various points on their journey towards Beleriand and the sea. Men, too, wandered far and wide, and the Houses of the Dwarves planted themselves wherever they could mine to their best advantage. The West always had the greatest concentration of all different races, although it is said that in the Far East there were Dwarven settlements and even wandering Elves. Ones who were said to be quite different to their western kin, and whose interest in the Valar was minimal at best."

"Oh gosh. So that's what happened to the Avari." She frowned, crossing an arm across her chest and slouching, ignoring that the wood of the shoddily-made chair was digging into her back. "Tolkien never mentioned that."

"I doubt he would have known. In any case, the Men of the West were – in some fashion, at least – quite used to the idea of dealing with Elves, even though by the Third Age they didn't simply bump into each other down the street. Still, they were less intimidated by the idea of having dealings with them than Men whose own histories only mentioned Dwarves and Elves and Hobbits sporadically. So the Haradrim and the Easterlings and various others came and went as they pleased. But our purpose remained the same over millennia." He paused. "To remain vigilant against the old darkness."

The way he said it implied something both thrilling and unpleasant, and Fiona wasn't certain that she wanted to inquire after it just yet. "So who's on the Board now?" she asked.

"A few of us," said Alun pleasantly, though cryptically. "You'll be able to meet everyone when you fly over here. If that is what you should happen to choose."

 _Nice segue there, and he hasn't even answered half my questions._ She sighed. "I don't know. Assuming that all this is real and not an elaborate prank, I'd love to go. But I'm in the middle of trying to finish a degree, and finding more work-"

"Fear not, your money troubles will be taken care of," interrupted Alun lightly, and Fiona could hear him tapping away at the keyboard. "And your degree can be deferred without any financial suffering. Let's just set aside the belief that living means trudging along doing boring things like paying the bills and doing assignments and cleaning up the house before rental inspections. For a moment, at least." The tapping stopped. "And compare it to what you could be doing instead."

"But…it's reality," whispered Fiona dejectedly. "I can only be a historian when I've gone through my undergrad and Honours and Masters and PhD. I can only keep studying if I have a job that pays enough to keep a roof over my head and buy food and textbooks and keep overdue notices away. I can't just go skipping off to…wherever it is I'm going to look for a seeing-stone." _No matter how much I want to._

"Your money troubles will be taken care of," Alun insisted, as if he didn't hear anything she'd just said. "Now the question is: Do you want to spend the rest of your time as a student slaving away in a café and then spending your working life trying to justify your job position, or do you want to believe that there is something more to it? Because if I were you, I would choose the latter. Mostly because it's true."

"I—"

"Lindir will be leaving for Lindon – what you know as Wales – tomorrow morning. Should you find yourself in a position to say yes, just give me a call and we'll arrange for you to accompany him. I'll look forward to meeting you. And if you do decide to come, pack your winter woollies. You'll find it's a fair bit colder over here than it is in Melbourne right now."

OoO

Fiona left the kitchen to retrieve her phone charger, which was probably tangled somewhere on the floor of her room – right where she had left it in haste last night despite all her neat-freakery. The sunlight cheerily pooling into the hallway from Mackenzie's room reminded her that it might be a good idea to check in. Having plugged her phone in she went to get them both a glass of water each. The words from her most recent (and most odd) conversation were still swimming around in her head.

Cautiously, she poked her head into Mackenzie's room on the way back.

Indie folk music emanated from the speakers on the desk. Mackenzie was sitting cross-legged on the bed, wavy brown hair dishevelled from sleep pinned back while she sipped a cup of tea.

"How're you feeling?" Fiona ventured, glancing around before carefully placing the glass on the only available flat surface that she could find which wasn't cluttered with knick-knacks.

"Fine!" answered Mackenzie cheerfully, reaching behind her to put her empty tea cup on a shelf with about ten other precariously-balanced cups. Her arms stretched up over her head and she gave a yawn. "Tired, obviously, but doing surprisingly well. Hey, what happened to what's-his-face? The guy who brought me here. He was pretty alright."

"Lindsay? He had to go. He did do a pretty good job of looking after you, though, and apologised for the state of your shoes." Fiona perched herself on the end of the bed, tucking a stray red-brown curl that had fallen into her face behind her ear. She raised an eyebrow. "So no headache? No wanting to crawl under the bed and die?"

"Absolutely none of that," declared Mackenzie confidently. "I am ache-free, nausea-free and _almost_ embarrassment-free, too. Aside from the fact that I had to leave so early, obviously. I don't think I've ever woken up feeling this bloody fantastic." She shook her head and then motioned at Fiona to pass her glass of water. "This is going to sound like a seriously weird question, Fi, but – do you remember him singing at all?" Her brow was furrowed and her eyes questioning.

"…No? When did he sing?" _I wonder if she remembers anything else about him. If she mentions his freaky glowy-ness I'll have to chalk it up to her being smashed at the time._

Mackenzie shrugged. "He was sitting next to me while I wasn't quite all there and passing out all over the couch. He was saying something to me – I don't even remember what – but all I could hear was music. It made me wonder if he was randomly singing at me. He did say he was a singer."

"That's…really weird."

"I know, right? Weirdest thing ever. You're sure he wasn't singing? Because that's kind of disappointing. Completely shatters my romantic dreams right there."

Fiona laughed. "Yeah. Sorry. Dream shattered." She stood up.

"Pity." When next she looked, Mackenzie was staring out the window, a wistful smile playing about her lips. "I like guys who can sing."

Feeling that her friend seemed to be back to her old self, Fiona smiled and left, closing the door behind her. Sinking down onto her bed, Fiona sat cross-legged and flipped on the switch of her tiny bedside fan. Despite the high ceiling that arched over the house it seemed that none of the oppressive air was going to be lifting any time soon.

She steepled her fingers. _Let me try and get this straight._ The history of Middle-Earth was, to her knowledge, largely real. Elves were real. The ones who had stayed now owned a corporation. Arthur and the Round Table were somehow mixed up with them.

She was descended from Aragorn, as well as a few Elf-Mortal pairings since, and had no idea whether her lifespan would be the same as an ordinary Mortal's – and there was a slim possibility that she might not even _be_ Mortal. That was just plain strange.

And then the fact that if she consented to this whole crazy venture, she would end up hanging out on a plane within touching distance of a famous Elf.

With a sigh she flopped onto her back. Patient silence reigned as the fan whirred lazily away next to her. _They're not just characters anymore_ , she thought, the sluggish realisation dawning as she swiped at the thousandth sweat moustache of the morning. If Lindir was real, then so were the other Elves from the legendarium – or at least, that was the logical conclusion. Glorfindel, and Elrond, and Erestor, and the ever-popular Legolas Thranduillion. The thought set her heart pounding. Which of these legends was she going to meet?

And what made them want to look for a seeing-stone that couldn't be of much use any more? The _palantíri_ were designed to aid communication between people far from one another. As far as she knew, there was only one left, rendering communication impossible. _And who would they want to talk to, anyway? If they wanted to chat to each other I'm pretty sure they've got phones for that._

They must have had their reasons. As her dad said, historians were puzzle-solvers – it was their job to pick up the threads of a story, find the missing pieces and fill in the gaps. While the dappled sunlight played over her quilt she tried to piece it together herself.

 _Nostalgia, maybe?_ She shook her head. _No, Lindir said that Elves were pretty practical as well as nostalgic. If there wasn't anything to be gained from this they wouldn't do it, and especially not with the urgency that I think they might be._

 _What was that he said yesterday? Something about the changes in the world's geography being a good thing, because it's helped protect them from being discovered. They're obviously pretty serious about not being found out._

 _I think they need to find it so that no one else does – so that anything that could possibly hint at their existence isn't just left lying around for someone to trip over._

Pursing her lips, she held up the sticky note on which she had scribbled Alun's number in blue pen. The handwriting looked unsteady, shaky. Excited. Something in her was urging her to go.

That decided it for her.

Scrambling for her phone, she snatched it up, her fingers flying over the keypad so that she couldn't give into any lingering hesitations. She took a deep breath when a lilting Welsh accent answered. "Alun? It's Fiona. I'm going to say yes to that trip."

OoO

An hour later found her on the floor of her room, trying to stuff enough clothing to last her a fortnight into her rather small duffle bag.

Alun had advised – and she had agreed – that two weeks would be enough for her to at least meet the team and study a little before heading back to uni, and she would only have missed the first few weeks' worth of classes. That she would probably have to absolutely rush through all the Week Four assignments didn't bother her right now. Her heart was pounding with elation.

A quick Google search had revealed that the average temperature in Cardiff during March was around 10 degrees Celsius, which was a little lower even than the cold and slushy Melbourne winters she was used to. She figured that whatever clothing she wore during winter would probably do over there, and tried to stuff a few of her favourite jumpers into her duffle. _Not that I know whether New Imladris is anywhere near Cardiff_ , she realised as she tried her best to squash everything down. _I probably should've asked, shouldn't I?_

 _And maybe I should've asked why I haven't been told much,_ she added. That particular realisation didn't do anything to calm the more nervous edge to her excitement. Rarely did she ever make decisions like this. Practicality was what guided her every judgement, and her path was made straight before her.

Until now, that is, because this didn't feel very practical. Or safe. She knew nothing about these Elves. Already she'd heard enough to know that the books hadn't explained everything. Lindir had proved a quirky enigma. The others might be nothing like the impressions her imagination had formed long ago.

 _I seriously hope I know what I'm doing._

She rose to her feet and stretched, legs aching from sitting on the floor and sweat sitting stickily behind her knees. "Man, I don't know how you're going to hold together," Fiona addressed her duffle bag, which was looking fuller by the minute. It felt strange to be packing so many winter things while over here the heat oppressively continued to permeate the house. The face of her small stuffed dog George poked tentatively out of the top, as though he were confused by the change.

Sighing ruefully, Fiona made for Mackenzie's room again. _I think I'm going to need some help._


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

"Hey, Fi – do we know anyone who drives a Rolls?" Ryan's tone was curious as he stood idly scrolling with his phone near the window facing the street. "It's just sort of chilling there."

"What? Holy shit!" Mackenzie pushed past Fiona ambling into the corridor and bounded up to the window, gripping onto Ryan's immaculate blue work shirt as she strained to see. Ignoring his wince, she wheeled around and folded her arms accusingly. "You never told us these Welsh relatives of yours were rich!"

Fiona dropped her duffle with a thud. Eyes watering from last night's lack of sleep and not even remembering exactly what she'd told her housemates about her sudden and unplanned trip overseas, she gave an apologetic shrug. "I'm sorry?"

"Whatever. Man, I wish I had your family. Hey, it's Lindsay! What's he doing here? Are you dating and just not telling me? Or is he one of your mysterious relatives?" Mackenzie's questions were flying thick and fast.

"This is going to sound ridiculously clichéd, but it's slightly complicated." As Fiona said this she brushed back an irritating curl that kept escaping from its pins. _Instead of telling me about my winter woollies they might have told me about how to deal with over-inquisitive housemates,_ she groused inwardly.

Ryan glanced up from his phone and raised an amused eyebrow.

"I mean—yes, he's related, but in a family friend kind of way. And we're not dating. I'm not quite that weird."

The tapping at the door made all three of them jump. For a moment they stood looking uncertainly at one another, before Fiona sighed and made her way across the lounge room (which, thanks to their rigorous cleaning efforts, was now shot-glass-and-pizza-crust-free).

A warm smile spread across his face as the door opened to reveal her and her messy braid and plain t-shirt standing there. Two days had been enough to nearly wash all memories of Elven beauty out of her mind, but standing innocently in the doorway as he was, he brought it all flooding back. The sun, already high despite the hour, lit one side of his long chestnut hair into fire.

The stunned silence in the lounge room behind her indicated that thoughts of a similar nature were probably occurring to her housemates. Without knowing that he was immortal, of course, all they would see was an extraordinarily model-esque young man with curiously old eyes.

Wordlessly Fiona thanked whoever was listening that the sunlight flooding the house would probably dim his ethereal Elven glow enough to avoid suspicion.

 _This is ridiculous. Two days ago there's no way I'd be thinking about how to disguise my new acquaintance's ethereal Elven glow._

Summoning a bright smile, she stood aside to make room for him. "Hey! How was the journey up?" _Whew. Not sounding too nervous. Nice work, Fi._

"Wonderful, thank you." His pleasantly musical tones washed over her again and she tried to ignore Mackenzie's excited whispering to Ryan in the background. "I hope that the Rolls isn't too much. I did try to tell Alun to go for something less flamboyant and – well, that was his idea of understated."

"Oh—no, it's fine!" Lindir levelled a solemn look at her. _Be honest._ "It's a _little_ bit much," she amended. "But it's kind of exciting too, don't worry. It's not like I'll ever get the chance to lollop around in an expensive car like that again."

He smiled. "Not if Alun has his way. He likes to spoil his guests, and you being family, he will spare no expense." His eyes skimmed over the top of Fiona's head to settle on Mackenzie. "I'm happy to see you looking well-recovered from the last time we met."

"Oh, totally!" came the answer. Fiona turned to see her usually socially-competent friend blushing a little. She was doing well – her pose and voice casual despite her pink face. "I should probably thank you for rescuing me from the evil clutches of the booze bus. I couldn't see that one going down well."

"You're most welcome. And do please extend my humble apologies to your shoes." He looked back down at Fiona. "Do you have your luggage packed? I will spare our poor driver the effort and take it to the car now if everything is ready."

"Sure – all done."

"Very well. I'll collect your belongings and allow you the opportunity to farewell your friends." A nod at Ryan and Mackenzie. "It was a pleasure to meet the both of you."

As he hoisted Fiona's bag off the floor, she couldn't help an uncertain glance behind her, where she knew that George would be glaring reproachfully at her through the walls. It was pretty sad, really. It had taken an entire evening of her and Mackenzie dumping her bag on and off their cheap set of scales to try and get her luggage to fit within the weight limit which they'd Googled. Unfortunately all her jumpers and pairs of leggings wouldn't allow any more room for the little stuffed dog, and her hand luggage wasn't big enough. The result was a rather tragic parting, with Fiona glancing longingly over her shoulder several times before gathering the courage to leave the room with her bags.

The sunlight shone into Ryan's eyes as he squinted through the window at Lindir's retreating form, before he turned around with a bright grin. "He looks like Sebastian's type. Tall and manly but sorta pretty at the same time. What do you think?"

Fiona frowned. "I think he's not gay."

"No straight guy ever has hair that good." Ryan gazed back out the window. "I'm almost jealous."

"That is ridiculously stereotyped, and I'm still pretty sure he's not gay," protested Fiona.

"Texting Seb now!" announced Ryan, whipping his phone out again.

"I give up." Fiona threw her hands up then turned to Mackenzie pleadingly. "While you're looking after George, would you mind taking care of this one so he doesn't end up humiliating poor Seb between now and the next time I see you?"

"I'll do my best." Mackenzie stood back and looked at her appraisingly. "How're you feeling?"

"Kind of excited, and kind of like crapping myself." Fiona fidgeted with the strap on her bag. "I don't actually know that corner of my family all that well, and then I find out that they're all El—uh, elegant. Elegant people. I…kind of don't know what to expect."

Mackenzie gripped her shoulders. "Fiona. You need to quit with the insecurities." A demonstrative wave of the hand. "You're like a Hobbit. They'll love you." She hugged Fiona fiercely. "I expect to see pics of fancy Welsh castles and things on Facebook by next week!"

Fiona felt Ryan come up behind her and wrap his arms around the both of them. His breath stirred her hair at the intentionally uncomfortable distance. "Same here. And I don't even look at half the shit people put on there. Feel special." He took a step back and made a shooing motion. "Now go forth and amaze them with your medieval art trivia."

Fiona headed out the door into the already-warm morning with a deep breath and what she knew was probably a miserable attempt at appearing casual. A slim man with greying hair whom she assumed was Gareth was already standing there with the door of the car open. People wandering along the road cast quizzical glances at all of them. _I'm going to Lindon._ She clutched her bag strap a little tighter and a smile suddenly quivered at the corners of her lips. _I can't believe it. I'm actually going to Old Middle-Earth._

"Ohhhh dear."

Something in Lindir's tone made her screech to an abrupt halt behind him. She peered over his shoulder. He was watching something in the distance, expression intent.

"Fiona, I would advise you to hop into the car, unless you want your picture taken. About now might be a good time."

"Wh—"

"Into the car!" he repeated cheerily, right before turning on his heel and stalking purposefully down the road towards the crowd of passengers squashing onto the tram.

Feeling that she had no other choice, Fiona sighed and slid into the Rolls, letting Gareth close the door for her. She almost sank into the unbelievably soft seating and hardly suppressed a squeal of surprise – a fact which did not seem to have escaped Gareth's notice, if the smile was anything to go by.

Finally settled, she twisted around in her seat. Hurrying just behind the tram was an unremarkable man glancing furtively over his shoulder, picking up the pace every moment. Apparently seeing Lindir making a beeline for him, he broke into a jog.

Lindir bolted after him.

"The hell is he doing?" Fiona whispered.

The guy leapt onto the tram just as the doors rattled closed, and left Lindir standing there watching it crawl down the road. A look of frustration marred the Elf's face.

"I wouldn't worry too much if I were you," said Gareth from the front seat, startling her. Bright blue eyes, set close together, met hers in the mirror. "He knows what he's doing."

"Does he just take off like that on a regular basis?"

Gareth chuckled. His clear accent – which Fiona was beginning to recognise as Welsh – sounded like music. "Lindir does as he pleases. Mostly, he tries to stay out of things – happy just sitting there tinkering about on the piano or violin and providing advice when needed, you know? But you mustn't underestimate him. If need be, he can change into the fiercest warrior at the drop of a hat. All of them can. Deadly people."

"I…can't really imagine him being deadly," mused Fiona, thinking of what she had seen of his cheerful demeanour so far. "He doesn't seem like the warrior type. I guess I don't really know much about him, though."

"And you're not expected to. Long and complicated lives, they all have. It's bound to affect them in ways we can't understand. Makes them less predictable." His tone was serious now. "They're not like you or me."

The car door suddenly flew open to admit Lindir. The smell of rain and trees swept in with him as he slammed the door, making Gareth wince. Still hardly a hair out of place, he sat down with a huff. "Well, _he_ caught on a bit quicker than I thought. I have seen his face, however, so at the very least we have some indication of what to look for if he decides to follow us later. Please drive on, Gareth."

"Sir."

"What's going on?" asked Fiona, perplexed. The car began to roll away from her driveway, away from her house.

"We are being followed. That is all."

"Followed?" Fiona echoed. "Why? By whom?"

"At this stage? No idea. All we can discern is that we're not the only ones searching for the _palantír._ Which is a bit of a worry, and does mean our venture will be constrained by time."

"My gosh. Who else would be looking for it? I mean, it's not exactly a well-researched branch of history."

"True, but Mortals have the truly odd talent of coming upon the very things they shouldn't and then poking them with a big stick. I know not how they found out about it. Even we only stumbled upon hints of its whereabouts by accident. They must know that we're looking for it too, and but recently we have caught various individuals interested in Mensa Rotunda's doings attempting to take pictures. I suppose they want to know who they're up against."

"Wait. You mean some guy followed you to my house to take pictures?" said Fiona, aghast. _My gosh. They know where I live now._

"It is possible. And they will be vastly interested in anyone affiliated with us, including you." He sighed. "I am sorry. Truly. I did not expect this to happen, but I should have been prepared for the possibility. I doubt that they would have managed a good shot of your face, but they now know your address. I fear Elrond will be displeased with me, and that I have lost your trust. I have failed to protect your safety and we are hardly ten minutes into the journey."

The look on his face was unbearably sad. "No—it's okay!" exclaimed Fiona. "Really. You couldn't have expected them to go so far as to follow you to some random person's house. I mean, I don't really know how I'll be able to go back home, now, but…" She trailed off, realising that her words were hardly reassuring. "Look, _I'll_ talk to Elrond if he gets angry. He's one of the Wise, isn't he? He'll know that you've done your best."

"I hope you are right," Lindir said soberly. He faced her directly, dark eyes unreadable. "Unforeseen developments indeed. I should probably tell you one thing." Fiona watched his face, almost holding her breath, as he took a moment to evidently formulate his words. "Your involvement with us, and with this venture, need only be to the extent that you wish. Mortals describe our kind as…intense. Should you find this to be the case, you will be free to go home – with protection, of course – and to keep up the amount of correspondence you deem appropriate. You have seen already that unexpected things may happen, and I do not wish to force circumstances upon you."

Fiona was unable to respond to that.

Outside the window cafés and people and traffic crawled past in the rising morning heat. So utterly ordinary. Lindir's musical voice was solemn. "Are you frightened, Fiona Lockwood?"

 _Be honest._ Fiona sat still for a moment, then found herself refusing to look away. "No," she said finally, which seemed to surprise Lindir. His eyes narrowed and she hastened to explain. "Nervous, yes. About what I might find when I go to Lindon, and about what dealing with real Elves will be like, but not frightened."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Absolutely," declared Fiona with a firmness that she suddenly and sincerely felt. "I'm here, aren't I? It means I want to be here. I want to help. I'm more excited than anything else. I mean, look at this!" She suddenly found herself grinning. "I'm going to Middle-Earth! I defy university to give me a better history assignment than that."

A few moments passed, but the slow smile that Lindir returned was all dimples. "That is exactly what I was hoping to hear," he said. Some kind of weight seemed to disappear from his face and smoothed out the tension in his brow, and the way he relaxed back against the plush seats breathed calm. He looked out the window for a few moments, leaning on the armrest as his fingers moved in a pattern, unwittingly coaxing silent music from some unseen instrument.

Inexplicably, Fiona felt as though she had passed a test of some kind.

OoO

The journey to the airport at Avalon – a ridiculously fitting name, Fiona thought, given the Elves' mysterious involvement with King Arthur – wasn't a very long one. She longed to ask more questions, curiosity almost gnawing at her insides. Lindir, however, had been sending emails and texts and making calls, giving her no opportunity. He had apologised for his unsociability but added that it was necessary, and that he would be more than happy to talk with her on the long plane trip to Heathrow Airport.

She had tried her best not to eavesdrop despite her curiosity and close proximity to the Elf. It wouldn't have done her any good, anyway – most of his conversations were in some lilting language that could have been Welsh or Sindarin. It made no difference because she couldn't understand either.

So in the meantime, she had decided to check her bank account and transfer her share of the rent money to Ryan. That way she wouldn't have to worry about it halfway through her stay in Wales. She wanted all her attention reserved for learning about her family's strange history.

When it had loaded Fiona had blinked a few times, wondering whether her eyes were still adjusting. There were far too many zeros on the end of her balance. _What the—_ A frantic scroll through her transactions revealed money transferred from Mensa Rotunda Pty. Ltd. – and an extra $25 labelled:

For tucker :)

 _Alun meant it,_ she thought, stunned. _He said he'd take care of any money troubles I might have and he did._ Bewildered, she held up her phone again and re-read the last transaction. _I've never heard anyone in Australia ever use the word 'tucker' but after what he's gone and done for me I don't think I have the heart to bag him for it when I see him._

"Looks like we're here," announced Lindir, his voice cutting into her thoughts. The car rolled onto the tarmac and came to a smooth stop near a small plane of some sort.

Fiona's jaw dropped open. "Are we flying private?"

"Yes, we are." The Elf cocked his head quizzically. "This seems to surprise you."

"I—yeah, I mean—" _I can't believe it. All that time that we spent trying to get my luggage to get to the standard weight and I could've easily gotten away with bringing George._

The door opened courtesy of Gareth and the heat of the day hit Fiona full-force – unpleasantly, after the air-conditioned comfort of the Rolls. She scrambled out with a hurried thank-you to Gareth while Lindir climbed out of the other side. Maddeningly, he seemed unperturbed by the heat, aside from a slight pink tinge that rose to his pale skin.

He turned to her as a man in uniform who shared Gareth's close-set blue eyes hurried to help the driver retrieve their luggage from the car. Tall and slim, Lindir cut a striking figure against the stark blue of the sky and flat landscape surrounding the airport. An apologetic smile turned the corners of his mouth upwards.

 _He looks really impressive when he does that. What's he going to say now?_

"I must beg forgiveness on Alun's behalf once again, it seems. Did he fail to inform you how we were to be travelling?"

"I have no idea, to be honest. Maybe I just wasn't listening – I was pretty excited at the time."

"And you ended up not bringing everything that you wanted to."

 _I don't like this Elf, he reads minds._ The silly _Ice Age_ misquote popped into her head. "Yeah, I kind of had to leave a friend of mine at home."

"Who?"

Fiona felt her face grow hot. "George the Magnificent. He's…my stuffed dog."

His features were solemn but his eyes were alight with amusement. "Fear not, King's Daughter. You will find that your preference of companion is among the least odd in New Imladris. For one," he added, holding out a hand to usher her towards the plane, "Elrond is known to have a few old Elven figurines in battle array lining one of his shelves, and Glorfindel swears he has seen him arranging them on his table and talking to them when he thinks no one is watching."

"Whoa, what?" She glanced behind her as they hurried along and then upwards at his face, remembering that Lindir was quite tall. "Elrond Half-Elven plays with Elvish G.I. Joes?"

"Essentially. And the famed Legolas Thranduillion of the Fellowship has his own small plush Elf lying around somewhere."

Fascinated, Fiona turned around once she had climbed the steps and was safely ensconced inside the plane. "You have to tell me how Legolas ended up with an Elf plushie."

"I will be happy to oblige. Please, sit." He gestured expansively once again with his hand.

The interior of the plane was easily as lavish as the Rolls, with a small set of comfortable-looking seating in two rows facing each other. Wood panelling – or something that looked like wood panelling – lined the walls. Beneath her ballet-shoed feet the carpet sank blissfully with each step.

"I feel like I have to take my shoes off before I tread this holy ground," murmured Fiona, tip-toeing over to the seats and reverently placing her small handbag on the one closest to the window.

To her horror Lindir seemed to have no such reservations. He removed his shoes and walked casually over the carpet before plopping himself down across from her as though he had done this a thousand times. _And he probably has. He's on the board of some big corporation._

Conversationally, he leaned forward with elbows on knees. In the dim lighting he still seemed to glow. "One midwinter, not long after _Return of the King_ was released, Glorfindel thought it would be amusing to make a gift of some _Lord of the Rings_ paraphernalia to the real Legolas. The popularity of the films made it easy for him to find something suitable – in this case, a plush Elf, complete with little green surcote and tiny bow."

"I think I've seen that one at pop culture stores before," Fiona said. "He's really cute."

"Indeed. Legolas received his little Elf with great solemnity and fell in love with him immediately. He makes random appearances around the sprawling castle grounds on occasion and I think Legolas has been tempted several times to upload his adventures onto Instagram."

At that Fiona found herself laughing. "I'm suddenly not feeling anywhere near as bad about George."

"As you shouldn't," replied Lindir. "There's certainly nothing wrong with being fond of your possessions, especially ones to which you have an emotional attachment. To Elvenkind, such things might even weave a form of protection against the smaller and more subtle forms of darkness that remain to trouble to the world."

"Like…magic?"

Lindir seemed to wince a little at the word. "Not quite, but that's what Mortal Men call it. What many do not understand is that love is the most powerful force there is, and that while it may look like magic, that is simply because it moves in strange ways. Ones that not even the Wise may fully understand." Lindir shrugged. "Elrond's soldiers are well-loved, as is Legolas' Elf, and as such have a life of their own that shields them in their own way."

"That is such a weird concept," breathed Fiona, sitting back against the comfortable seat as she tried to take in yet another barrage of information. "Maybe that's where our fairy-tales get it from. Love conquers all and all that."

"There is a lot of truth in it."

Curious, she moved her eyes away from the view of the tarmac outside and dared to look at him directly. "What do you have?"

"What do you mean?"

"Elrond and Legolas have their toys. What do you have?"

Without hesitation Lindir answered, "My viola. Carved from fallen _mallorn_ wood, and with the permission of the tree who was unable to remain rooted against the storm that felled it. In order to travel here I had to leave it behind in fair Lindon, and it has been most uncomfortable trying to sleep without its presence somewhere in my room." He smiled. "You see? We all have our quirks."

 _I'm starting to think that Elves are the quirkiest of the lot_ , thought Fiona.

He glanced up as Gareth's look-alike made an appearance over his shoulder. His smile grew warmer. "John, how fares the morning?"

"Very well, sir. And especially after that stack of pancakes. It certainly filled a hole."

At the mention of pancakes someone's stomach grumbled – and to Fiona's surprise, it wasn't hers. Lindir glanced downwards at his middle and sighed. "I suppose we'll not have much in the way of food until we stop over?" His mournful tone made it a question that he already knew the answer to.

John shook his head regretfully. "No, unfortunately. We might have some sandwiches from this morning left over, if I go and find them for you." For the first time he seemed to notice Fiona. "Fiona Lockwood, is it? Pleased to meet you. I'm Gareth's brother. He'll be co-piloting with me this morning."

"Nice to meet you too," answered Fiona, wondering how Gareth would have the energy after driving them for an hour already. "Will Gareth be okay?"

John waved a dismissive hand. "Perfectly fine. He's just finalising the last details of the flight plan before we head off. It looks like we'll have pretty good weather for the next few hours, so the ride should be a smooth one."

"Good," Lindir said. "I have a feeling my stomach would loudly object to any turbulence."

"Probably. I'll send Gareth in with the sandwiches in a minute." Turning abruptly John headed back up the aisle and towards the pilot's cabin, closing the door with a neat snick behind him.

Not long later, the small jet lifted into the sky, carrying Fiona, Lindir and the sandwiches with them towards Lindon.

Studying Lindir's face now that it was daylight, Fiona found its ethereal beauty and the ancient wisdom behind his young-seeming eyes breathtaking all over again. Her eyes wandered to his hands, with their long, clever fingers, and imagined them handling his viola: his bow poised and ready to sweep across their strings. _I really want to hear him play._

A long time passed, and Fiona tried to keep occupied with reading or typing bits of assignments into her phone. She even napped for a little while. If he noticed that she kept looking away whenever he glanced up then he said nothing, and kept working away on his laptop with the quiet earnestness that he had demonstrated in the car.

 _Are they all this beautiful? Or intense? I wonder how I'm going to cope if I'm surrounded by more than one of them._ The words which Gareth had spoken to her not so long ago sprang to mind. _They're not like you or me._ The thought made her wonder just what she had signed up for.

She was just finishing off the last sandwich when Lindir closed his laptop with sudden finality and leaned forward. "Business emails are a boring necessity, but now that they're safely out of the way and Elrond has no unfinished papers with which to reproach me, we can talk. Finally. I can see you are fair bursting with questions and I'd rather you not literally burst – our poor pilot would find that most inconvenient." He gave another one of his beautiful yet mischievous smiles.

Fiona couldn't help but smile in return. She was beginning to find Lindir's cheerfulness contagious. "Okay. Why are we looking for a lost _palantír_?"

"A good question, and one which has a lengthy answer to it. As we are in this small box in the sky you will have no choice but to hear it even should I begin boring you to tears. Are you willing to listen?"

Fiona tried to match his earnestness. "Absolutely."

"Very well. Let's start at the very beginning." Another grin. "A very good place to start, or so I'm told."

 **Thank you to everyone who has followed/faved/reviewed Lindir and Fiona's adventures so far! Your appreciation motivates me to keep writing. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Anonymous review replies:**

 **Aearvir-TheModernDayElf:** Hello there! I really wanted to thank you for your review but you've disabled your PMing so I couldn't get back to you. Your review was lovely and I appreciate that you liked it so much and wanted to tell me about it. :D I can't think of any Aussie actually saying "tucker" either. I love the Pop Vinyl Legolas as well, he's so adorable! (I have a Tenth Doctor one sitting on my desk and he's cute too.) Thanks so much for reviewing!

 **silkleaf7gmail:** So glad you like it! Things will get complicated pretty soon and we're only just beginning. :D Thanks for reviewing!

 **CodenameAgentC:** I know, forgetting to review can happen pretty easily! I keep tabs open on my phone so that I remember to review later. :D Yes, I thought making Lindir our male protagonist would make a bit of a change from the traditional Legolas fic – not that I don't think Legolas is cool, but other Elves need their time in the spotlight too, right? Thanks so much for reviewing!

A big big thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! I'm trying to update as quickly as I can – this whole adulting thing really sucks when it comes to finding time to write.

Enjoy the latest chapter, and remember to drop me a review when you get to the end!

OoO

CHAPTER FIVE

"If you're an avid student of Professor Tolkien," Lindir began, "and something tells me that you are—"

 _He's calling me a nerd_ , thought Fiona indignantly.

"—then you will likely know something about _palantíri_ , or what Men once called seeing-stones. They were gifted to the Men of Númenor not long after the end of the First Age by the Elves of Tol Eressëa. It is said that Fëanor himself was the one who first discovered how to make them, and that would not surprise me."

He snorted. "An Elf who was said to be quite talkative at times might be trusted to invent Arda's first long-distance communication system.

"Anyway, these mysteriously dark crystal spheres were placed at various points all over Númenor, enabling communication across distance, mind to mind. Many noble families owned at least one. I see that surprises you. Yes, while no record exists stating just how many _palantíri_ were in use on the Isle, they were not exactly uncommon.

"Only seven of them made it out of Númenor, thanks to the efforts of Elendil and his sons. These in turn became a convenient way for the North and South realms they established in Middle-Earth to speak with one another. Over the Ages since, they've gone missing. The one that used to sit in the tower of Amon Sûl mysteriously disappeared, along with a few others. From what I know, one or two fell into fissures in the earth during various earthquakes and upheavals, and one was lost at sea. Thinking about it now, I believe the earth itself was erasing the memory of its history, making room for the Dominion of Men."

Lindir shrugged. "Well, we certainly didn't spend too much time thinking about them as the centuries went on, immersed as we were in our own affairs, until something surfaced quite unexpectedly. Now that just over one hundred years have passed since the First World War began many historical museums and libraries have taken to creating displays, as I'm sure you've noticed. And _that_ was where I found the manuscripts.

"There they were, meticulously laid out beneath the glass in a long display case containing a series of personal letters, all from that same four-year time period. Apparently many of these letters had been generously lent by the families who owned them to create this particular display. Not a few referenced strange happenings – after all, we're talking about post-Victorians. They were of an era still fascinated with the supernatural and the bizarre.

Lindir finished his glass of water and grimaced. "And I've just realised there is probably more you don't know about Mensa Rotunda. I should probably mention at this point that our company is regularly involved in historical and academic ventures. Being one of the first merchant companies of the Renaissance still in operation, we are approached by academics all the time either for information or help with funding. I'm sure Alun has informed you that Mensa Rotunda oversees a multitude of operations, and this is one of them. I tell you this because you look puzzled as to why I was hovering about a museum instead of singing in a tree or whatever it is you believe Elves do with their time. Do not look so horrified, daughter of Elessar.

"I was peering over the shoulder of one particularly dreadlocked fellow whose hair was blocking my view when something about a particular set of letters caught my eye. I cannot say exactly what it was. Crumbling yellow pages, a slanting hand that danced whimsically across the paper – they looked fairly similar to the others, so clearly it was not their appearance that drew me. Anyway, what I managed to read awoke my curiosity, and I surreptitiously took a picture or two using this marvellous thing." At that he pulled out his phone and held it up.

Fiona realised that her eyes must have been huge and that she was gripping the dark leather armrest of her seat. Forcing herself to relax, she took a sip of water and said, "How did you get away with taking pictures in a museum?"

Lindir's response was accompanied by a brilliant smile. "By being fabulously pretty, obviously." He laughed when Fiona rolled her eyes – _though really, he's right. He is fabulously pretty_. "All I would've needed to do was show my official permission papers and I'd be on my merry way. As it turned out, no one stopped me. In my experience if one acts casually enough, one can usually get away with a violation or two."

"I both really want to and really don't want to know what you've done to warrant that fragment of wisdom," said Fiona dryly. _He really knows how to tell a story. That said, I hope he gets to the point soon. Are all Elves this dramatic?_

Drumming out a pattern on the armrest with one hand and scrolling with the other, Lindir found what he was looking for and handed her his phone. "These aren't the best pictures, I'm afraid. They are slightly blurred, as you can see, and that whole section in the middle of the second photo is almost illegible thanks to the glare." He folded his arms across his chest. "What do your historian-eyes see?"

"An Elf who's misquoting _Lord of the Rings_ at me, for starters." Fiona looked closely at the screen. She could probably make out most of the words if she stopped to think hard enough, but the handwriting was quite elaborate. "Well…the writing is really nice, and there don't seem to be any misspelt words. So I'm guessing whoever wrote this had to have had a higher level of education than your average pleb. British aristocracy?"

Approval lit his eyes, and Fiona felt heat rise to her face. "Yes – it was written by a young lady from a family of the upper-middle class, wealthy enough to have hired good tutors, and obviously invested in education. My guess is that the father might have worked at a university. If you will kindly pass that back, I can read to you what I was able to make out.

 _October 15, 1915_

 _Kent_

 _Dearest Charles,_

 _How glad we all are to hear from you, and that you have been given leave! By the time this letter reaches you, you may well be on your way to see us – perhaps if you keep this as a talisman, as you say you have with all of our previous letters, our prayers will continue to follow you when you return home, and weave a safe path beneath your feet as you depart again for the front._

Lindir gestured at his phone. "In that part where the glare of the glass sits there was something referencing a previous letter, where Charles had evidently recounted a humorous event staged by some of his friends in the army. I cannot see it and it is probably not important to our search."

 _You asked in your last missive that we tell you all that has been happening here and spare no detail, so that you will carry a piece of home away with you. Very well, I shall do my best. Dear Ned fell out of a tree but two days ago and begs me remind you that he will be collecting upon his debt. After all, he says, he is indeed the only one of us to escape with hardly a scratch after falling from the old oak, thus escaping the family curse, proving you wrong and being most deserving of those three shillings. Myrtle has continued her studies and jokes that by the next term she shall be able to write you entirely in Latin._

 _While I cannot claim anything so exciting, something which Father told me recently can hardly escape mention. He did not seem comfortable disclosing to Mother or the younger ones what he had difficulty disclosing even to me, but gave me leave to ask you: Do you recall that heavy old ball that seemed to be fashioned of a kind of dark glass – the one that we used to roll across the floorboards of the attic on occasion? Father seems to believe that something rather queer happened once when he examined it. A part of me believes it a figment of his imagination, or at least wishes to; but something about the look on his face when he recalled the sight of strange beings and burning hands within the old thing makes me wonder with a shudder whether there might not be something in it._

"Good grief." Fiona stared at the phone, then up into the face of the Elf in whose hands it was. "That had to have been a _palantír_. That bit about the burning hands – I remember reading something about how after Denethor burned alive on that pile of sticks he built for himself, anyone who looked into the stone he had held would see…" She trailed off, and grimaced. "Well…that."

"Right. So, in essence, we now know that the Anor-stone was still in existence as recently as one hundred years ago."

"That's recent?" exclaimed Fiona. Then, wincing at the mock hurt expression on the Elf's face, she added, "Sorry, I keep forgetting that a hundred years might not be all that long to an Elf."

"What are you saying about my age? You wound me." Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again when she realised his solemn tone was entirely belied by the twitch of his lips. "One hundred years is still a quite a decent passage of time, even for one who has lived whole centuries over and over. Now, it has been speculated that one of the only substances existing in Middle-Earth that might be able to destroy a seeing-stone would be the fires of Mount Doom."

"Also known as Mount Vesuvius?"

"We believe that might be the site of the original Orodruin, yes. After so many Ice Ages and continental driftings it honestly has become hard to tell. That said, I don't know about you, but I can't see this wealthy family taking a trip to Italy to sling their strange glass heirloom into a volcano, even were they in possession of knowledge concerning its history. What would you conclude?"

"Well, if not much else can destroy it, then I'd say that it's probably still floating around somewhere," answered Fiona.

"Precisely. And if we can find which family owns these letters, perhaps we might be able to speak with them and find out whether they still have it."

"I wonder," Fiona mused, "what kind of people would end up owning something like that. Or – wouldn't someone have noticed that if they looked hard enough then all these weird images and fiery hands would appear in it?"

He shook his head. "Not necessarily. The seeing-stones themselves were less powerful in Middle-Earth than they had been in Númenor. I would hazard a guess that they lose their potency, the further they are from the source of their making in Tol Eressëa."

"Okay. And what about actually using a _palantír_? Do you need some sort of training to use one?"

"Well – Men are not so connected with the origins of things in this day and age. Ancient skills and abilities once passed down either through blood or long learning have faded over millennia – so long past that they are lost entirely. Including the mental abilities and sensitivities that one might need to use a seeing-stone." He pocketed his phone and paused. "There is something—"

Lindir stopped himself abruptly. Suddenly, it seemed, he was unwilling to say more. Instead, his mouth made a grimace, and he looked up at her diffidently as though daring her to question him further. Almost as though he were saying: _Are you sure you want to hear this? Your call._ Fiona's fingers were digging once more into the armrest.

"Well, don't stop there!" she burst out, realising even as the words tumbled out that they must have sounded wild, childish.

"I will not – I'm merely contemplating how to phrase what I need to say next." His long-fingered musician's hands clasped together, elbows resting against his knees. "It's only a theory at this point, you must understand. I have no wish to deter you from continuing with us."

 _Good grief. I wonder what he wants to tell me now, on top of everything else._ "You might as well," she said. "Tell me, I mean. After finding out that Elves exist and that I'm a descendant of Aragorn and that I might not be Mortal, I'm pretty sure I can handle it." She smiled and gave a shrug.

He nodded. "I suppose it only fair that I tell you anyway, if you're going to be involved with this undertaking. History can be a dark study, despite the tweed-suited lecturers and dusty old books. Venture far back enough and even the most avid scholar might discover that he should have left well alone."

Despite the brilliant sunshine spilling through the jet's windows a shiver passed over Fiona at his words. _And we're poking at it anyway?_

"At around the time we believe the letters were written, there were a series of other odd happenings," explained Lindir. "Strange occurrences around the wealthy neighbourhoods just outside of London. Ghost sightings, disappearances. Even the odd vampire story. Things of that nature. Anyway, the press occasionally published these things to give people something to read about aside from the war, and naturally any mention of the paranormal would have sparked a good deal of interest."

Fiona quickly pieced the information together. "So you think there was a link between the _palantír_ suddenly awakening and all these supernatural things happening?"

A nod. "Something was stirring that had long lay dormant. So yes, that does suggest a link between those strange – if sensationalised – events and the seeing-stone suddenly being usable again."

"What would a _palantír_ have to do with the supernatural?" queried Fiona with a frown.

"Plenty. Being able to weaken the barriers between the dark past and the present, for one. But that is an entirely different tale – one which I will tell you later." He leaned forward. "The point is that, to answer your question concerning why we are looking for this thing, it's what I have said before: we are not the only ones searching for it."

The enthusiasm that lit his eyes after such a dramatic delivery made light of the topic, but this hardly alleviated the tension in Fiona's gut. "Please tell me we've got a head start on this." And now she was starting to say _we_.

"Well," said Lindir, rubbing his chin in thought, "perhaps we have, and perhaps not. As Elrond would say, it is not for us to ascertain how far ahead or behind we are." He put on a slightly posh, serious accent. "Our job is to keep carrying out the task we long ago promised to undertake, and that to the very best of our ability."

"What task?"

His answer was delivered with a lazy smile as he leaned back. "To protect Middle-Earth, of course. And that means locating this seeing-stone before someone with less-than-pleasant intentions does." He glanced out the window. "How time has passed! We have been working and talking for so long that it appears we've missed part of the journey already."

Fiona followed Lindir's gaze. They were flying high above an expanse of rippling blue with sunlight glinting and shifting over its surface, and there was land fast approaching from the distance. "Where are we going?"

"Singapore. Our pilot must refuel, and we must subsist on more than sandwiches." He looked around conspiratorially. "You know, this admission would horrify Elrond, but I find myself looking forward to dining on Big Mac and fries when at last we land. The more sophisticated tastes of Elvenkind appear to have passed me over."

OoO

Singapore was humid and sticky, a sky of brilliant blue arching over Fiona's head as she clambered down the steps of the air-conditioned Lear jet. Against the very edge of the horizon clouds were gathering, dark and bearing the promise of heavy rain later. Her dark-washed jeans creased uncomfortably around her knees and already sweating legs. _Just wait til we get to freezing Wales, then you won't regret this_ , she thought, gritting her teeth as she pulled at the material in an attempt to get some air circulating.

Lindir bounded down off the last step, startling her. "What do you think about going off to find some food?"

"Yes, please!" sighed Fiona, relieved at the thought. "My stomach's eating holes through itself."

"A dire predicament indeed. We shall not tarry any longer!"

Straight away Lindir set off across the tarmac with Fiona almost jogging to keep up with his long stride, heat rising in waves and distorting the landscape. They headed toward the main complex of buildings, out of which rose a tower, stark against the sky: a long, thin pipe with clear glass dishes stacked on top of it. Or so it looked to Fiona.

"Changi Airport has been rated the world's best airport for three years running," Lindir remarked, while Fiona did a quick Google Maps search. "Honestly, I'm curious to know why."

"I don't know, but it does boast having a Macca's, which might appeal." Fiona held up her phone for the Elf to see the cutlery symbol and the words _McDonald's Changi Airport T3_ looming next to it.

At that moment Lindir's own phone rang. He sent her an apologetic look and answered in a language that was not English, beckoning her to follow as they approached the wide automatic doors.

A blast of air conditioning blew the escaping curls of her braid back as they entered a busy new world. Around them people milled and chattered noisily, nearly washing out the sound of Lindir's Sindarin; tourists dragging straggling children behind them, crisp-suited businessmen and women hurrying past with their luggage to the call of distant announcements echoing in multiple languages.

Despite the hurrying crowds, the pair of them were still turning heads. Or at least, Lindir was. _I wonder what we must look like_ , thought Fiona as a group of young women whispered and sent appreciative glances in his direction, and looks of undisguised jealousy in hers. _An attractive, six-foot-whatever guy sporting expensive yet casual British look escorts_ —she caught sight of her reflection in a shop window as they passed and couldn't help a grin in spite of herself— _uni student whose hair has been officially destroyed by the humidity. What even is that sticking out of my head?_

Next to the reality of people and food courts everywhere, it was hard to remember that not so long ago she had been hearing about ghosts and seeing-stones and protecting Middle-Earth. Fiona tentatively peeked up at the Elf next to her, all quiet confidence and long hair and power coiled just under the surface. In such a worldly place, he seemed like a walking contradiction.

 _As far as road trip companions go, he's been more than a little odd. Talking about the supernatural with the same casual tone I use to say that I'm hungry._

 _Speaking of which, I'm really curious as to what he meant. Are there other things left over from old Middle-Earth besides Elves, just lurking around? And, more importantly, why do I feel more excited about this than worried?_

"All good?" she asked as Lindir hung up.

"All good," he answered, pocketing his phone with one hand and placing another at the small of her back, steering her out of the way of a noisy gaggle of gangly high school students. "As we speak, one of our friends is having an adventure trying to escape his pursuer around this airport."

 _And the plot thickens._ "Really? Who?"

Lindir looked uncharacteristically smug. "You'll see for yourself."

"Communist," grumbled Fiona.

"Patience, comrade. Fries first."

OoO

On the other side of the airport Erestor pocketed his phone. He stood up. It was time to move.

Dutifully, his pursuer unobtrusively moved with him, far enough behind in the milling, hurrying mass of humanity that swirled around them to be almost unnoticeable to someone without Erestor's keen Elven eyesight. He suppressed the gravelly Dwarvish curse that he had the sudden impulse to grind out beneath his breath.

The man was middle-aged, unremarkable, and behind the half-rims of his glasses his watery eyes betrayed a hidden intelligence. Were it not for Erestor's caution he might not have noticed the man at all, blending so inconspicuously into the crowd by dint of his sheer ordinariness.

Not for the first time, Erestor wished fervently that his own appearance were as unassuming. His height and broad build distinguished him from most Mortals far too easily. Even in a crowd like this, it would be difficult to lose him. _Loathsome little man._

He dared a surreptitious glance over his shoulder as he neatly stepped onto an escalator. His pursuer was talking away on his phone and subtly taking care not to let their eyes meet. To remain low-key, his follower had to compromise on having him within direct sight at all times. And he could not remain too close.

He needed to take advantage of that.

Struck by a sudden idea, the Elf adopted a deliberately casual air as he stepped off onto the next floor. Sauntering his way into a large department store, he veered sharply away to the left through the milling shoppers.

 _And it begins._

Within seconds he'd whipped off his shirt while passing through an expensive suit section and smoothly stolen a generic grey jacket. The price tags he shoved under a shelf full of jumpers. His second shirt – which had been beneath the first white one – showed blue against the grey. A completely different colour.

Weaving through customers and shelves and racks, he'd swept his long dark hair into a terrible man-bun – carefully covering his ears – and moved on to the make-up section. If the girls attending other customers noticed that he was dabbing stubble onto his face from multiple tester palettes and rapidly darkening his skin tone, they said not a word. Finally, he adopted a lazy slump and slouched out of there with a crowd of young, be-suited businessmen, who were so busy talking to one another that they didn't notice.

And neither did the man who had been following him for two hours. Erestor passed him just in time to hear his frustrated snarl into his phone: "Well, I don't know! There's people everywhere and the place is bloody huge!"

He was careful not to let a smirk trouble his features as he moved on and flipped out his phone to relocate the private jet terminal.

OoO

"Man, I think I ate too much," Fiona all but groaned, struggling to keep up with Lindir as they made their way through the large airport shopping complex.

To her surprise he turned around and gave a rueful grimace in reply. "Me too. I begin to regret those two Big Macs."

"The last words Tolkien ever expected to write of one of his noble Elves," said Fiona wryly, the automatic doors opening and admitting a rush of heat from outside.

Lindir flashed another one of his beautiful smiles. Fiona felt a funny little skip in her heartbeat.

 _I can't even tell at this point whether that's indigestion or embarrassment._

In a moment she forgot about it as she heaved what she felt was her enormous Subway-and-gelato-filled bulk up onto the Lear – and found a dark-haired stranger already ensconced in their seats. She came to a halt with a little intake of breath.

He rose smoothly, tall and imposing. Steel-grey eyes, deep set and piercing, looked out solemnly from his strong features. Without preamble, he spoke: "Fiona Lockwood, I am Erestor. _Mae govannen_." And he gave an Elven bow, hand over heart.

If she had thought Lindir a little overwhelming before, Erestor was on an entirely different level. His air was distinctly heavier than Lindir's, seeming to almost pervade the physical space around him. Hard and immovable and strong.

"Hi," she said, lamely.

"I assume you were able to evade your one-man fan club then," said Lindir, gesturing questioningly at his face. It was only then that Fiona noticed dark smudges streaking across Erestor's chin, where it appeared he had tried to wash something off. Lindir held out a magnanimous hand for her to take the window seat. Which she did, avoiding looking right into Erestor's rather intense face as she squashed past.

"With a little difficulty, yes," answered the erstwhile councillor of Rivendell. His voice was deep and resonant. "In this one afternoon, I have robbed a store, worn a man-bun, and had eyeshadow smeared on my face."

"So an ordinary day, then."

As she watched them Fiona noted with curious amusement that the way the two Elves sat across from her spoke volumes about their personalities. Erestor was broader in the shoulder, his long, dark brown hair (mercifully released from the man-bun of his story) bound now in a neat tail. He sat up straight, but without any apparent conscious effort. _Definitely the Noldo_ , she thought, and imagined him swinging a large hammer and smashing it down into red-hot metal, the forge fires fiercely lighting his face. She mentally flicked through all the different Erestors she had come across over the internet and tried to see whether the real one before her fit any of them. _He doesn't look like the scholarly type, but then again, I don't look like the descendant of a half-Maia either._

By contrast, Lindir was slouching languidly with his feet propped up on the table once again, hands resting peacefully on his stomach and unbound hair flung carelessly over a shoulder. His strength was of a whipcord kind – unassuming, quiet, and enduring. He was somewhat less transparent than his friend – behind his eyes was something Fiona couldn't quite define. The thought that perhaps it was music was a strange one, but the more she watched him the more she found herself believing it.

 _He wasn't kidding when he said that Elves were an intense bunch_ , she reflected with fascination. _These two almost seem to embody something of their personalities._

 _Metalwork and music, maybe?_

Turning away after a moment, she propped her head up while gazing out the window. Outside, the afternoon was brilliant and the clouds were drifting lazily below them. A surreal, drowsy feeling settled over her in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. Beneath them stretched what looked like endless, rolling sea. _Alone, with no place to land,_ came the strange thought. Here she was, on a plane, going to the land of Lindon, with two of the ancient race of the Eldar casually sitting there with her. Had it really been only a few hours since she had left Melbourne? It felt like days.

Somehow, though, a small voice seemed to whisper in the corner of her mind that she was in good hands. Peculiar as this whole situation was, foreign as her companions were, they were a reassuring presence.

"…and then the curator informed me that he would not be able to tell me exactly who had donated the letters, without the family's explicit permission." Erestor's firm voice shook her out of her thoughts. "That may take another few days, at least. Assuming, of course, that they wish anyone to know who they are."

"That does put a spanner in the works," agreed Lindir with a frown. "We could simply ask to see the letters themselves, and deduce as much as we can from them. There is one other option, though I won't lie – it could be painful."

Erestor raised a heavy eyebrow. "The archives?"

"The archives. Fiona, you have made a study of history - what would you do next?" Dark eyes turned to her questioningly, the musician's head tilted to one side.

"Uh…" _Dude, I'm an undergraduate. The only archives I use are ones I can google._ "Depends on what you're looking for. What would you be doing in the archives?"

"Searching for tales involving an object suspiciously akin to the one described in the letters. Where would you start?"

"I guess I'd…try looking through the newspapers first?" _That's what Sam and Dean Winchester would do, right?_

"Excellent. I imagine that's what we'll do if we go to Kent, then."

 _Oh no_ , Fiona thought. _I really need to read up on all of this historical research stuff. I can't give Tolkien's Elves advice from_ Supernatural _._

"What troubles you, Fiona?" It seemed that Erestor, too, was capable of reading minds. With a bored expression, he passed a delighted Lindir the tin of Danish biscuits from his bag as he spoke.

Fiona watched in confusion. "Well…I'm not all that used to the kind of hardcore research that you guys are obviously doing. I don't want to—you know—"

"Say the wrong thing?" prompted Erestor.

"Yeah."

Lindir shook his head. "You must not be troubled about what you say, or what others may think of it. Especially not when in the company of the Eldar. Your knowledge and thoughts will be given as much consideration as mine, or Legolas', or an experienced academic's such as Master Elrond. And, though you may have forgotten, the idea of you coming before your Honours enrolment was to receive counsel as much as to contribute. Right?"

His voice was gently reproving, reminding her that she wasn't expected to know as much as the rest of them. _Now I feel like an upstart snot, waltzing in and feeling like I actually have to advise these ages-old people like a professional._

Erestor's contribution was much more down-to-earth. He gave a snort. "Besides, you cannot imagine that you are here just for a thesis."

"No?" said Fiona, perplexed. "What else am I here for?"

There was a moment of silence as Lindir stopped trying to pry the tin open. Levelling a frown at her, he seemed genuinely puzzled by her words. "To meet your family, King's Daughter. You do have one, you know."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Fiona awoke with a jolt, embarrassingly, face half-buried in Lindir's soft woollen jumper.

Vague memories of him moving to her side to plug his laptop under the seat and charge it slyly suggested themselves, and she scrambled upright. Lindir didn't move.

She'd probably insulted his Elven dignity or something. The part of her that wasn't horrified, though, was squealing unabashedly with delight. _I can't believe I fell asleep on an Elf!_

Before she'd inevitably ruin the moment by squeeing aloud, she edged away and looked out of the window into the darkness. Lights twinkled back at her out of the inky black below. There were more approaching, and they were gathering in thickness like a vast blanket spread out beneath them.

 _That's pretty,_ she thought, not bothering to suppress a wide yawn. Her vague reflection in the window was an even more dishevelled version of the last one she saw at Changi Airport. Sighing, she undid the braid and tried to bundle it into a ponytail.

She glanced over at the unmoving, slightly glowing one next to her to see whether he had woken up.

He hadn't. His head was tilted up, dark eyes half-open. Beneath their lids something was flickering strangely. Fiona dared to lean closer, frowning.

They were pictures. Tiny, backwards pictures. Fiona's own eyes widened.

"Whoa. Tolkien sure didn't mention that one."

She sat still for a moment, then gave Lindir's jumper a poke to check for any wet patches. It was humiliating enough that she'd fallen asleep on him – she didn't want him awakening to her drool all over his expensive top. His arm was lean and toned beneath the fabric.

Somewhere over her head, she heard a voice say, "What, precisely, did the Professor not mention?"

She quickly extricated her fingers from Lindir's jumper. Just in time for another glowing Elf to step out of the darkness behind them, sitting down heavily. His arms folded across his broad chest and he waited for her answer expectantly.

 _I really hope he didn't see that._ "The—his eyes. There's like a movie going on in there."

"One thing Glorfindel evidently forgot to voice. The Professor would undoubtedly have published the fact otherwise."

"Glorfindel was the one who told Tolkien?"

"Yes. Glorfindel and his abnormally large mouth." Erestor rolled his eyes.

"So what's happening there—" Fiona waved a hand at Lindir. "—that's the Elvish dream paths or whatever Tolkien called it?"

A brisk nod.

"Wow. How does that work?"

"Unlike Mortals," replied Erestor gruffly, "we may repose by blending life and dream, remaining bodily awake yet allowing rest to the mind. Walking the path between the past and the present, our dreams may show on the face or in the eyes."

"Kind of like a trance?" queried Fiona. "With extra added weirdness?"

Erestor blinked. "There are no Mortal words akin to the experience, yet perhaps to them it does look like a trance. We do not require the deeper sleep of most Mortals." In the dark and with his strange glow, Erestor's strong features looked a combination of beautiful and frightening. "Our people speculate that the sleep of Mortals most closely parallels their eventual sleep in death. Some say that the Mortal body must become slowly accustomed to it, so that death, when it arrives, may claim the _fëa_ without the need to wrest it away with difficulty."

There was a garbled _hmmph_ noise in response, before Fiona could reply. "Depressing," mumbled Lindir, his jumper rustling against the seating as he sat up. His eyes had returned to their normal dark brown. He scowled. "What are you doing, Erestor? The King's Daughter has no need of stories like that."

"As you can see, Elves may, like Men, still awaken with approximately the same level of irritability," said Erestor flatly.

"Where's my biscuit tin?" groused Lindir, sounding so unlike his cheery self that Fiona had to suppress the untimely giggle that bubbled to the surface with a badly-disguised cough.

"Right over here." She picked it up and nearly flung it backwards with its loss of weight. Somehow Lindir had managed to munch away most of its contents while she'd been asleep. He snatched it off her with as much grace as he could apparently muster and hugged it to himself grouchily.

 _Alright. I'm staying away from that._ "Hey, Erestor – where are we, exactly?" she asked, realising that it was sad that the stern Noldo felt less threatening than the grumpy Sindarin musician at that moment.

"Very close to London, if I am correct."

"London? Already?" Fiona rummaged through her bag to retrieve her phone, which proclaimed that it was 8AM in Melbourne on the other side of the world.

Erestor made a move to pack up the many cords and devices that littered the space around them. "We have stopped over at least once since Singapore. You have slept a long time."

"I didn't really sleep much the night before," confessed Fiona. "We were too busy trying to stuff my dog into my duffel."

The Elf's heavy eyebrows shot up. "Your dog?"

"Not a real one," she hastened to correct. She shoved her phone back into her bag. Erestor went on packing silently. "Um, Lindir said that Legolas has a toy Elf, _he_ has a mallorn viola, and Elrond has figurines lying around. And, well, for me there's George. Do you have, you know, anything you can't do without?"

That earned her an open glare. She shrank back into her seat and let Elrond's councillor go about his business, feeling it might be safer. After a moment an open biscuit tin slid under her nose.

"You must be absolutely famished after all the sleeping you've done," said Lindir, eyes alight with an amusement which suggested he was perfectly aware that she had fallen asleep on him.

It was a good thing that it was dark or he probably would have seen her face heat up. But he spoke the truth – the smell of buttery Danish cookies wafted through the cabin enticingly, and she had a stomach-jolting realisation that she was absolutely starving.

"Whatever," she mumbled, then proceeded to dig into the pretzel-shaped cookies.

"I've heard that Mortals often use these tins for keeping their sewing implements." Apparently recovered from his brief period of grumpiness, Lindir was heartily scarfing down cookies in a way that Fiona was beginning to become strangely accustomed to. "Is that true?"

"They're boxes full of lies and deceit," replied Fiona, remembering ruefully the number of times she caught sight of one of them lying around her grandparents', only to find pins and cotton reels inside. "Calculated specifically to make grandchildren cry."

"As young Mortals say, I know that feel." The blanket of lights outside was becoming closer, brighter. Fiona noticed her heartbeat had quickened its pace. "There was once an Elfling I knew whose mother began filling her baskets with the needles and bright fabrics of a seamstress instead of honey cakes, much to his regret. Even now," he added, "the sight of an empty basket is still enough to bring me close to weeping."

"That surprises me not," said Erestor flatly. "With your sweet tooth, I am surprised your girth is not three times what it is."

"I hear jealousy, _mellon nin._ "

Fiona hardly registered their bantering. She was almost pressed against the window, watching. They were landing, the plane swooping down upon Heathrow in a wide arc, with New Imladris around the corner somewhere. Some part of her brain was still stubbornly refusing to connect the weirdly extant denizens of Middle-Earth with the modern world. Even with a couple of them getting their gear together and arguing with one another in mixed English and Sindarin right near her.

 _It's still hard to imagine a world where things like Macca's and planes exist alongside a place where Elvish is still spoken. Like, I still twitch every time Lindir gets his phone out. He's an Elf, he's not supposed to have a phone._

Mechanically, she got up and tried to pry her duffel out from the shelf above them as the small jet bounced along the runway, wanting to keep herself occupied. Her legs were stiff, her jeans were heavily creased and her toes were so numb she nearly fell over. Lindir turned around and in one neat move swept her duffel down and handed it to her graciously.

"Thanks."

"You are most welcome." He frowned down at her. "I believe that it is rather colder outside than I suspect you're prepared for."

"I'll be fine." Fiona tried to wave away his concern but he shook his head.

"Hang about." He was removing his dark red scarf despite her protests. "You've been beneath a blistering summer sun for months, and now you are about to step into a British winter. Let me tell you, this marvellous scrap of material will do you more good than you realise."

Fiona felt thoroughly embarrassed. She didn't need someone to dress her, even if he was right. "But you've already done so much for me!"

"Not nearly enough, King's Daughter." He settled the scarf down over her shoulders. At this proximity the glow of his skin reflected palely on her hands clenched self-consciously at her sides. Not sure where to look, Fiona settled on trying to stare somewhere past his pointed left ear.

His hand brushed involuntarily against her cheek as he looped the long scarf around once, twice, before he held the ends in his hands. "There. You wear a piece of history about you."

"Er…" _This had better not be made of First Age underwear or something._

"You may be interested to know that I found this whilst walking about the countryside one cold morning. It fell out of the window of a speeding carriage – amid much squawling from inside – and I never had the chance to return it to its owners. It has stood me in good stead for a good long time."

"Did you find out who it belonged to?"

"The Royal Family," he answered nonchalantly over his shoulder, moving after Erestor up the narrow aisle. Fiona could almost feel her eyes bugging out but she hastened after him, dragging her duffel behind on the soft carpet. "Or, at least, I have reason to believe it was them. There were many children, at the time."

"How did you find out?"

"I can't remember the exact details." He paused for a moment. "But in any case, this scarf has proven itself to be a good one for 170 years, and I think it's time it had a new owner."

Fiona froze in the middle of absently picking at a stray thread. She shook her head, backing away. "I can't wear—"

"Yes, you can," Lindir interrupted cheerfully, standing aside to allow her to make her way down the steps, bewildered. His voice continued behind her. "Are you not descended from a royal line also, and one far older than any of Britain? You know, I'm sure Victoria would make allowances. She might even…be amused." His dark eyebrows waggled ridiculously as he delivered the last comment.

"B—but—"

Completely ignoring her, Lindir strode past her and met John, who stepped out of the cockpit looking every bit as fresh as he had the last time Fiona had seen him. Nary a wrinkle out of place on his blue uniform, and not a hint of fatigue. His brother Gareth materialised next to him a moment later, and exchanged a few words with the Elf that Fiona couldn't catch.

She wrapped her coat closer around her. The air really was cold, and she could feel her legs fast losing warmth despite the fact that there was no wind. Those jeans were, she realised belatedly, probably not going to do a whole lot against this kind of weather.

 _Maybe Lindir's got a pair of Victorian long-johns back there._

"You look like you're about to freeze," observed Gareth in his lilting Welsh accent as he followed John past her. "Stay warm, alright? I'll make sure the heater stays _on_ in the car," he added with a glare in Erestor's direction.

Unrepentant, the dark-haired Noldo shrugged. "I do not feel the cold."

"Is Gareth driving?" queried Fiona as they hauled their luggage once again across the tarmac. Her duffel strap was digging into her uncomfortably and she shouldered it restlessly. "I hope he's okay. He and John were kind of flying us across the world there."

Lindir nodded. "I did offer my assistance before, but Gareth would have none of it."

"Won't he be tired, though?"

"He's at his most comfortable when driving, and does not tire easily. If I believed him too spent to drive, I would take the wheel myself, or else sleep on the floor of this airport until he had rested."

"Something tells me that's happened before."

The musician stopped a moment, hair swirling. A slow smile spread across his face as a memory surfaced. "I had fully rolled out my sleeping bag in a street once before he finally threw his hands up in a huff and allowed me to use Mensa Rotunda's funds to put us both up in a hotel."

"He does not enjoy having money spent on him," Erestor put in as Fiona tried not to gape. "Only the sight of Lindir stubbornly set up in a dank alleyway made him relent."

"It was merely a side-street, not an alley. I acted on my suspicion that the prospect of being arrested was one of the only things that would terrify Gareth into letting me spend company money on him, and I was right. Of course I took the opportunity to ensure that the rooms we lodged in were good ones. The poor fellow was most uncomfortable." He shot a grin in Fiona's direction.

Erestor only rolled his eyes.

Despite Lindir's talk, though, Fiona found herself with a new respect for him as they trundled away with their bags to wherever John and Gareth had the car. _He offered to take the place of the chauffeur, even though he's supposed to be a company representative, and he's tired himself._ It might've been a small gesture, hardly noticeable if she weren't looking for it, but somehow it mattered.

OoO

That 170-year-old scarf was the only thing that stood between Fiona's face and the bitter wind that started buffeting her in gusts as soon as they got out of the (again expensive-looking) car. Gasping at the cold, she tried to do up her coat with fingers that refused to work, and eventually one of the buttons popped off. It rolled past stern Erestor's uncaring foot and rolled into a gutter.

"Fabulous," she muttered. She went around the side of the car, peering into the boot. Where they were she had no idea, but she guessed that it was somewhere in or around London. Even this close to midnight there was still traffic, and the obnoxiously familiar sound of beeping and blaring horns.

There was garbled shouting and raucous laughter as one car whizzed past with two young men hanging out the window, leering unpleasantly at her. Lindir raised his head in annoyance and shouted something back in a harsh, guttural tongue that sounded like rocks being smashed up. She nearly blocked her ears – it made his lyrical voice sound demonic.

"Dwarvish," supplied Erestor, abruptly appearing at her elbow. "It ill befits an Elvish voice."

"Yeah, I can hear that." Fiona blinked. "I have to wonder what Dwarves would sound like speaking it."

"Actually, it suits them well. They are built to speak the language of stone, even if we are not. Come."

Fiona knew that he hadn't meant it to be a command, but it made her feel like she needed to snap to attention.

Before her, a very old and grand-looking house loomed up behind wrought-iron gates and over a stone courtyard. It was lit invitingly from inside. There were even tiny balconies at the upper storey windows, framed by stone arches. It looked like it might be warmer in there than it was out here, and she was eager to get inside before her hands fell off with her coat buttons.

"There are times where Erestor is unaware of how he sounds." Mercifully, Lindir's tone had returned to being soothing and Elf-like. He stood next to her with luggage in either hand and watched his friend intimidating the fancily-suited-up porter outside the door. "I hope he didn't scare you. Or insult you. Whichever. You would not be the first."

"Not yet, though I have a feeling that he might after a while." She clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. _My gosh, did I just say that about an ancient Elf?_

Lindir, on the other hand, actually grinned in approval. "Well, would you look at that. You're learning how to speak truthfully."

"Hey, I was pretty honest before all—whatever this is!" she said indignantly, trailing behind him across the courtyard.

"I don't doubt it. But Mortals have a way of clothing what they really mean in fine words to protect one another from hurt. Certainly such an approach has its uses. Among the Eldar, though, it doesn't do a whole lot of good."

"Here I was thinking Elves were flawless."

For the first time since meeting, Lindir looked shocked. He rounded on her with a look so palpably stunned that she wanted to back away.

"That is one notion of which I really must disabuse you immediately. To Mortal eyes, maybe it does look as though we appear perfect, through agelessness and grace. Appearance has always determined perfection to the Second-born. But I can assure you that darkness may lurk in Elven hearts as it can in any Mortal."

Clearly, it was a topic he felt passionately about. It felt like a vast overreaction. She tried to appease him. "I didn't mean it seriously, Lindir."

"No? Then you will forgive me for speaking so animatedly on the topic regardless. If you know anything of Elven history, then you will know our love of languages and speaking, and how words can be used to heal the worst hurts or rouse an entire people to fire and rebellion." He sighed. His young-seeming eyes looked old, so old. "For many long ages now, we who choose to remain in this Middle-Earth keep such careful guard over our words. We would rather be direct, even if it creates a temporary divide, for such small disputes are healed in time. Not so with others."

Fiona took a breath to slow the thrumming of her heart. "I get it. None of you want to end up in a Fëanor-type position again, where everyone panics and runs around kinslaying. But I don't think that's going to happen just because I'm used to using a little tact."

"Not the point, King's Daughter. It is so woven into our culture now that we tend to want to be honest about even the smallest things. It prevents a multitude of ills. And as to my first point," he said, bringing his face closer to hers and looking straight into her, "please remember: not all Elves are as they appear. Even with our wish to be sincere, there are some who have little regard for such unspoken rules. What you call tact can be vastly abused for a people skilled in speech. Do not believe all our race unspoiled by deceit."

Erestor turned at that moment and motioned for them to come over, the neatly-dressed porter glancing uncomfortably from one imposing, perfectly-featured Elf to the other. He was probably wondering, as she had done the first time she had seen one, where on earth they made people so tall and intense-looking.

She jumped as her duffel bag thumped at her feet. Lindir was smiling once again, transformed in an instant from that wary, hardened creature of legend with old cares darkening his eyes to the light-hearted Elf who liked burgers.

"Alright, let's see what stuff you are made of. Even Aragorn of old needed to shoulder his own pack."

"I thought I was supposed to be the royal one," she grumbled, struggling to get her bag to cooperate.

"Indeed, but much like Simba, you'll have to wait to be king." Lindir's voice was dry.

 _I really don't get these Elves. They're full of wisdom and melancholy one moment, then full of nonsense the next._

She dragged her increasingly heavy bag past the porter and over the polished wooden threshold – and the zip chose that moment to split open.

"Oh come on!" she wailed.

Erestor turned and looked at her with annoyance, while Lindir burst out laughing. She stood there huffing with her arms folded and let him stuff a few jumpers back in for her. She could almost see her father's eyebrows shooting up with disapproval, almost hear his reprimand for her immature behaviour, but in frustration she ignored it. She hadn't prepared enough for the trip, apparently, her coat had been recently made short of a button and couldn't be done up, and now her bag was broken. It was childish, she knew, but she couldn't fight off the wave of irritation – now tinged with panic – that washed over her.

If this marked the beginning of her stay with the Elves, then what other kinds of bad luck awaited her?

"Alright, grace has preserved you this time." Valiantly Lindir picked the bag up and was away, a tall figure lightly bounding up the polished staircase to the right.

Ignoring Erestor's patent disapproval, Fiona sighed and moved out of the doorway. The porter – a short young man in a top hat trimmed with red ribbon – moved in after her with a smile and went to the reception desk. Two older women whose makeup was miraculously intact were clearly packing up for the night.

Looking around her, she drank in all the details now that she had been relieved of her bag (as guilt now reminded her. She would have to apologise to Lindir later.). The room they were standing in was huge, with the staircase up which Lindir had disappeared leading to a second floor whose carved wooden balcony ran all along the wall.

From here, she could see the upper floor must have continued into another wing separate from the lavish reception area. Old faces and young looked down at her with either wisdom or self-importance from large framed paintings. Downstairs in a small nook near a fireplace was a set of chairs with intricately carved backs and a lounging couch with curved wooden framing that wouldn't have looked out of place on the set of _Pride and Prejudice_.

The carpet had old floral designs blooming over it, but despite the motifs didn't seem to be very old. _They've really put in an effort_ , she thought in wonder. Fiona had seen a lot of historical dramas – was even living in a Victorian house back in Melbourne – before but none of them had prepared her for seeing the real thing. Not something this extravagant, anyway.

Erestor was speaking to the reception ladies as she was busy ogling all the pretty furniture and light fixtures. Her historian's eye noted that the reception desk's design looked to be made somewhere in the mid-19th century, while a lot of the other furniture – and art – around the place were probably a fair bit older.

"Your keys, Mr. Stuart." One of the ladies slid a set of keys across the polished surface of the desk, three in total. Her perfect manicure shone in the light of the massive chandelier that hung over the centre of the room.

"My thanks." With a curt nod he whipped around to face Fiona, who jumped. "Gareth and John will have quarters to themselves. Lindir, myself and you will be in a suite in the west wing. I have been assured there are doors."

Fiona felt that he was saying it as much to convey his relief as to assure her that her maidenly modesty was under no threat.

Not particularly wanting to voice her indignation, however, she pushed down her hurt and trailed after Erestor and the young porter, who by now had winked at her and was leading the way with the other luggage in tow. He must have been a good deal stronger than his thin frame suggested.

They made their way along the second floor, past a series of doors, then the porter unlocked one of them, bumping on the light switch as he swaggered in with their bags. "Here you go, then!" he said cheerfully. Then to Erestor: "Any particular place you want these?"

"You may place the black suitcase on the bed, thank you. Miss Lockwood, I believe your room is through that set of doors."

Even with Erestor staring at her, Fiona took a moment to realise that she was being spoken to and shook her head as if trying to shake off her amazement. The mantelpiece, the fireplace beneath it with its intricate-looking poker, the antique chairs, the canopied bed – it was just a lot to take in.

She had to wonder just how rich Mensa Rotunda was to be able to afford it all. The costs of renting a room here must be astronomical.

Taking Erestor's instruction as a good night, she tentatively walked over to the set of double doors with their quaint little handles and pushed them open.

Lindir was in there, and scattered around him were several items of clothing that had evidently popped out of her dying duffel bag. He was trying to stuff them back in and glanced up when she came across him squatting on the floor and clutching a pair of her undies.

Mortified, hardly knowing what she was doing, she ran over and snatched them right out of his surprised hand. "Hey! These are my knickers!"

It might've been a trick of her imagination, or maybe wishful thinking, but she could've sworn a slight red coloured the Elf's face. "Forgive me, I was only attempting to return your things to your bag."

"Thanks, but I think I'll take it from here." Fiona couldn't help wondering whether this was some bizarre punishment from the Valar for snoring all over an Elf.

Standing up, he pushed some hair back out of his face and folded his arms. "So? What do you think of the place so far?" _Smooth change of topic._

"It's beautiful," she answered with a smile, plopping her undies into the bag in one swift motion so his eyes didn't have time to follow her movement. "It sort of almost reminds of Como Mansion back in Melbourne, except with even older stuff in it. Everything's so…rich."

"Erestor will be pleased that you like it."

Fiona's forehead wrinkled in perplexity. "Why? To be honest, he doesn't seem very impressed with much."

"Annoyance is Erestor's default mode. Beneath that steely exterior, he is generous beyond compare. And his artistic taste is impeccable to a fault. It's why he bought the place. Bloody Noldor," he added with an eye-roll as he trooped towards the next set of doors to the right.

The fact that these Elves could just go about casually buying up mansions was a baffling one.

"Um…do you know where I can have a shower?" Fiona felt a little awkward asking, but the sight of her deodorant can lying on the floor reminded her that she hadn't had a decent wash for quite a while. After all that sweating she'd done back home and in Singapore, her smell was probably offending every Elf in a 50-kilometre radius.

"Just down the hall, to your right. The furniture may be antique, but thankfully the washing facilities are not."

"Good, I was hoping I didn't have to have a bath drawn for me with kettle-fulls of water over a fire."

Eyebrow raised in amusement, Lindir gave a gracious, ironic bow of commendation. "And you are fast learning sarcasm. I do approve."

He grinned at her over his shoulder before disappearing through the doors.

There was a moment of silence before Fiona dove with a muffled squeal into the huge, soft bed with its dark red canopy and multiple pillows.

"Ohhhh man," she mumbled. "I could sleep here forever." Her limbs were nearly creaking with the kind of aching stiffness that could only come from being squashed in a plane for hours on end.

Nevertheless, she wasn't tired. Her mind was wide awake and running with possibilities. Who else was she going to meet? Were more buttons going to fly off until she didn't have any more clothes and had to skulk around Wales in her bra? What had happened to Lindir to make him so demanding of her honest opinion on even the most trivial matters?

 _Not all Elves are as they appear_ , she repeated his words to herself, rolling onto her back and staring up at the canopy. _Well, I figured that._

It probably wasn't any of her business, but she resolved to ask him about it – maybe later. Maybe towards the end of her two weeks. That look in his eyes had been so sad, so fraught with memory, that she suspected there was more to the story. The analytical, historian's side of her frowned at that recollection and filed it away for later.

 _He seemed pretty chill in the books_ , she thought, trying to dig up what she could remember of canon-Lindir as she whipped on her pajamas, complete with hole-filled cardigan. He had always been one of her favourites, but mostly because of some very mushy fanfiction she'd guiltily read through high school. There was no way she was going to tell _him_ about that, though.

It didn't stop her from remembering his scent, all rain before a storm; nor the way he'd whipped off his scarf before wrapping it around her; that dimple in his left cheek when he smiled; his long fingers obliviously brushing against her face, his nearness sending the tiniest of shivers down her spine…

 _Whoa, whoa, whoa. I am not going there._ That rather intense moment of fangirl-hood had taken her by surprise.

Well, clearly she wasn't going to be getting any sleep any time soon. There was only one solution she could think of to remedy that. Her door, only half-closed, seemed to beckon her out into the carpeted hallway with its old paintings and heavily-draped windows and elaborate staircase.

That decided it.

 _Alright. Time to go exploring._

The first thing - or rather, person - she almost literally stumbled across out in the hallway was another guest: a bald man with a head so polished it gleamed in the overhead lighting shining down from another ornate light fixture, and a comically drooping moustache. Clearly he wasn't wearing anything but the towel around his waist.

He saw her, gave an undignified little scream, and bolted into the nearest room, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. The slam echoed down the hallway.

Fiona's hands were over her mouth in an attempt to hold back the snorts of laughter that threatened her dignity as she tiptoed back towards the staircase. _Wow. The people you end up meeting._ She peered around the corner of the wall, where the balcony of their floor began, and looked down into the large reception area. Only one of the two receptionists was still there and she looked about ready to leave.

The doors at the entrance burst open suddenly, and in strode an insanely tall figure with waist-length hair that could only be described as gold. Not just blond - it really was almost gold, with a burnished shine to it that could only belong to yet another Elf. His eyes met hers immediately as he shook off his coat.

She tried to hide around the side of the wall, but it was too late for that.

"I can see you, you know," he called out, his voice clear and ringing and full of amusement. "You might as well come on out."

OoO

 **Thank you for reading! Out of curiosity, which Elves are you hoping to see next?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Anonymous review replies**

Guest: I love to think Maglor still wanders the coasts and is still hanging around somewhere. Can't promise anything, but maybe you'll see him later on. It all depends on where this story ends up going! Thank you for reviewing! :)

Agent C: Erestor is a bit of a prickly one, isn't he? But kind of a sweetheart beneath all the grump. You'll see whether it's Glorfindel or not in this chapter. :D And yeah, I'm not even going to deny that biscuit-tin-clutching-Lindir made me crack up while I was writing it. I wonder what "may the stars shine upon your keyboard" would sound like in Elvish? I need to know now. Thanks for reviewing (and remembering to! I'm so proud of you.)!

* * *

CHAPTER SEVEN

One glance at this Elf just screamed _warrior_. Erestor had a good deal of strength in his bearing, and the longer she knew Lindir, the more she could catch glimpses of the fight that lay beneath his calm exterior. The Elf standing about at the front door, though, was a different kettle of fish entirely.

Completely at-odds with his jovial greeting were his eyes – which she could see even from all the way back here were afire with some strange light that she hadn't seen before in either of the Elves of her acquaintance. Even just the simple gesture of removing his coat communicated a mixture of power and agility. This guy was one that she could believe had charged headlong into countless battles before.

"You must be Fiona Lockwood!" he boomed. "All the way from Melbourne, Australia! How do you do?" It was like Lindir's customary cheer amplified tenfold and thundering across a stadium full of thousands of roaring soccer fans.

Fiona wasn't sure whether she could handle any more Elvish insanity this late at night but clearly there was no backing out of this one. Summoning a casual air, she tried for a confident walk as she stalked out from behind the wall on the second floor – as though she weren't wearing the holiest cardigan on the planet.

"I'm pretty good, thanks," she managed.

"Delighted to hear it! Vera, my dear, I am dying for a good cuppa." He was fixing the last receptionist with a most charismatic smile as Fiona made her way slowly down the ornate staircase. It didn't help his request that his eyes were so filled with light they were almost burning.

 _How the hell has he managed to walk around looking like that and not end up frying someone?_

Poor Vera's jaw was moving up and down until she managed to stammer, "I—I'm sorry, sir, my shift has finished."

"Bugger it, I've done it again, haven't I?" That otherworldly light dimmed suddenly, spectacularly, and the newcomer transformed instantly into just another Elf (if employing that phrase was even possible): supremely good-looking, ethereal, but no longer looking as though his footsteps might char the carpet.

 _This Elf is on fi-yahh!_ Came the ridiculous lyrics, and Fiona hurriedly brushed them away.

"Is that better?" he was saying, flashing another handsome smile and tossing his frankly magnificent hair before leaning one-elbowed on the antique desk.

This time Vera's eyes narrowed. "I'll have none of your wheedling, Elf," she said sharply, surprising Fiona. "How many times do I have to tell you? I am not the maid, I am the manager, and no, you will not get another cup of tea out of me!"

"But I'm the boss," came the almost plaintive answer. "Tell you what. I'll up your pay."

"Sod off," answered Vera mildly, flouncing off with her bag and coat and vanishing through one of the many doors the place had.

"Ah, she loves me," said the Elf to no one in particular. "Well, Fiona, how are you? Oh. You've already answered that, haven't you? Come down. I promise not to bite." He raised an eyebrow when she awkwardly landed at the bottom of the stairs. "Nice pajamas."

"Thanks. I dress for comfort."

"I, too, share that philosophy, but when out and about in the world of Men appearances are important. Hence this rather expensive coat." He waved the expertly-tailored black bundle demonstratively. "Such is corporate life, unfortunately. On occasion I consider whether the Balrog might've been a better dinner companion than some of the people I am forced to meet with. And possibly with better table manners. Well, I'd wager that the kitchen is empty, and I, for one, am absolutely starving. Erestor won't mind if I've plundered his supplies and his fancy utensils."

"I don't know," said Fiona uncertainly, grimacing. Her stomach, however, definitely agreed with the Elf and reminded her insistently that a few Pretzels on the plane was not a meal. "He seems like the sort who would mind a lot."

A mischievous smile curved the Elf's lips. "Ah. So you've met Erestor. He's a prodigious grouch. All the more reason to use his kitchen then, yes?"

Fiona had no idea who this guy was, but she liked him immediately.

"Here, come sit down in our dining room, and I will bring you…something. Whatever we've got. I will even cook if I have to, although I warn you that my skill doesn't lie in that particular field. But you'll have the privilege of being able to say that you have eaten Elf-concocted slops, and that is not something everyone can boast about."

Confidently taking her elbow, he gently steered her off in the direction she guessed the dining room was, and led her beneath the massive chandelier that hung over the reception area. Now that her feet were bare she could fully appreciate the softness of the floral-motif carpet. It didn't provide anywhere near the kind of blissful comfort that the carpet back in the Lear did, but it was nice nonetheless.

And the fact that it was probably a replica or restoration of the original stuff sent the geekier part of her into conniptions.

 _Man. If I'm squeeing over a bunch of 200-year-old stuff now, I wonder what I'm going to be like in New Imladris._

They passed through a set of double doors and Fiona eagerly took it in.

Just like the rest of the place, the dining room was a delight to behold. Polished round tables, elegantly carved chairs, an ornamented mantelpiece over a fireplace that had wrought-iron pieces curving around the hearth. Landscapes and the ever-present portraits ran around the room with its wood panelling, and there was even a bar.

She had to wonder what it had looked like in Victorian times, and easily imagined upper-class folk in silks and satins partying it up in here.

"What do you think?" asked the Elf by her side, smiling at her blatant admiration.

"It's sort of rich, but sort of homey at the same time. It's very Erestor."

"That, by far, is the best description of Erestor I have ever heard," was the declaration given, and Fiona was so torn between this Elf's sincerity and his obvious love of flair that she wasn't sure if he was serious or not. In one smooth motion he'd tossed his coat onto a chair (it fell perfectly into place, of course) and slid one out for her. "My Lady Heir," he said, with a flourishing gesture.

Fiona tried to quickly work out the logistics. It was one of those movie situations – the kind that everyone sees but probably doesn't actually find themselves in. Did she just sort of stand there? Or did she half-sit in the air with her bum out until she got the all-clear signal? Either way didn't sound all that great.

"I believe this is the part where you let me be all romantic and seat you," said the Elf, who looked rather amused at her obvious discomfort.

She had to laugh at herself. It was ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, I've just never done this old-world manners thing before."

"No? Then you'll just have to allow me the liberty. Step this way, that's right. Now just sit as usual. There. See? No trouble at all." He dusted off his hands dramatically while Fiona tried to look at ease. "Now, what would Madame Heir prefer? Our menu specials tonight include: bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs, or bacon and eggs. Unless, of course, I can find something that only requires that I add some water to it. Or, even better, something I can jam into the microwave."

"Bacon and eggs, then, please," said Fiona, hardly able to talk through her laughter. "May I at least know the name of the valiant knight who promises this feast?"

He spun around on his way to the kitchen and swept an elaborate bow. "Glorfindel, at your service!"

And so the re-born Slayer of Balrogs turned upon his heel and set off to make bacon and eggs with Erestor's fancy utensils.

She had to wait until Glorfindel appeared through the set of double doors that must've led to the kitchen, slid two plates down the table and plopped himself down to ask a question that had been on her mind for some minutes now. To her deprived senses it smelled heavenly, and she took up her fork as slowly as she could so that she wouldn't start shovelling it all down a la Cookie Monster.

It occurred to her that she seemed to do nothing but eat when she was with these people.

"Vera called you an Elf before," she said after a few mouthfuls, wondering whether it would be inappropriate to pinch some bacon off his plate. It just looked so good. "I'm guessing she knows a bit about you guys, then."

"Indeed she does. Vera's been with us for…oh, probably going on 35 years now. Her story is rather remarkable." The all-too-casual air with which he delivered that statement just reeked of Elven drama.

It was probably a good thing Fiona was getting used to it.

"How did you meet her?" she asked.

"Through her boyfriend. He wasn't a bad sort at all – it was most unfortunate that he happened to be crossing the road when that truck came careening out of nowhere. It was Lindir who found him, actually, and because it was the poor fellow's dying wish, he set off to track down Vera."

Even as Fiona felt a pang of sympathy for Vera, her ears pricked up at the mention of Lindir. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She was only 18 and having to work at a skeezy bar downtown to pay the bills. And by skeezy, I mean that the boss had his employees doing more than just barwork. Not a nice business." There was a quiet moment while Glorfindel took a contemplative sip of his water. "When Lindir found exactly what kind of place she was working in, he decided then and there that she was leaving her old job to get a new one, in a fancy house in a nicer part of town. Practically strode in and ordered Erestor to employ her."

"Erestor doesn't seem like the type to take orders." She paused. "Well – not from Lindir, anyway."

"He isn't the type to take orders, no," Glorfindel admitted, "but he is a noble sort, if somewhat prickly. So together they went to, er, persuade the proprietor that Vera was no longer in need of employment. He was a big man, and had bodyguards, and wasn't that amenable to the suggestion at first. That was before Erestor flicked a knife at him."

"Oh."

"Lindir laid out the terms while Erestor was busy calming down. Five hundred thousand pounds sterling – an absolute fortune for those days – to close down his bar and illegal activities and leave London."

Vivid images of a terrified small-time mafia boss being pinned to a wall with an Elvish blade flashed across her mind, while in the background a pacing Erestor strove to contain his anger and Lindir leaned over the table, hands spread, all wolfish smile and shadows.

Glorfindel, it appeared, had that Elvish story-telling streak in spades.

"I take it he accepted." Fiona took a sip of water and tried to school her features to neutrality, feeling that she'd spent quite enough time gawking in Elven company.

Glorfindel gave a wolfish grin of his own, which was all the answer she needed. "She's been with us ever since and Bob's your uncle, as they say. 35 years is a long enough time for some secrets to be unburied, including the fact that her employers aren't quite human. She didn't seem too fazed by it. How did _you_ react, by the way?" he asked, leaning forward with a curious expression on his face. "When you found out about us? I have it on good authority that you hadn't been told at all until a few days ago. Are you alright with all of this?"

It was the first time anyone had actually asked her how she was feeling – the very first, in between all the hurried conversations and an evening of throwing her stuff into a bag and sleeping on a plane with a pack of strangers. Whether it was exhaustion or something weird in Glorfindel's cooking, her eyes started to sting annoyingly.

"I…guess I kind of have to be alright with it," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "No escaping one's destiny and all that. I can't really help my weird ancestry, or the fact that none of you are mythical. Besides, it's a good research opportunity." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

The only indication Glorfindel gave that he'd noticed anything was to subtly push some napkins across the table in her direction. Which was good, because she was angry with herself. "Well, these words may be of little comfort to you, but I'm going to say them anyway. I can but imagine how overwhelming it must be to suddenly discover the reality behind a story, and you clearly haven't had all that much time to process it." Kindly, he laid a large hand over hers. The warmth in the gesture made her eyes water even more. "But you mustn't worry. Elrond has always taken an interest in the descendants of his adopted son, and all of Rivendell continues its loyalty to him as we have for countless ages. They're not going to be judging you. And, well, no offence, but we'll need to you toughen up for this venture," he added apologetically.

Under other circumstances Fiona's temper would have flared at the comment, but coming from this Elf – beneath whose joviality was a keen intelligence, she could see clearly – it didn't sound as rude as it could have. She sighed. "I know. Believe me, I'm actually more excited than scared. It's just the first time that anyone's actually slowed down and checked that I'm getting any of it."

Glorfindel squeezed her hand and let go with a smile. "I understand. Ask questions whenever you need to – no one's going to mind."

They sat quietly for a while as they finished their late-night meal, and Fiona got the distinct impression that remaining silent was a feat he found difficult.

Eventually Glorfindel leaned back with an enormous yawn, stretching his long arms. "Well, I think my cooking passed muster that time! What do you reckon?"

"Absolutely!" answered Fiona, feeling a lot better by now. _He's right. I do need to toughen up._ Maybe the admission that she'd needed some reassurance had somehow boosted her energy, and she sat up straighter. She could do this. Seeing-stones and ghosts and whatever else.

The oddly intense way Glorfindel was looking at her clued her in, though. Her mouth fell open.

"You're doing that thing that Lindir does!"

"What thing?" Glorfindel asked. His bright eyes couldn't hide a glint of mischief.

"The weird Elvish magic thing!" Fiona folded her arms accusingly. "Lindir got rid of a headache for me the other day. Are you manipulating my emotions?"

"I wouldn't quite put it that way…" He stood up, his height quite imposing despite his friendly face. She scrambled to her feet, not wanting to have to crane her neck to look up at him. "I am simply good at encouraging people to realise their potential. There's an adventurer behind that bookish exterior of yours, and you're going to need it."

"Bookish?!" echoed Fiona indignantly as Glorfindel smoothly swept their plates off the table and carried them into the kitchen.

She couldn't really deny that one, she realised. Her passion was researching medieval history and legends and then writing essays about them. It appeared even the Elves thought she was a big old nerd.

Glorfindel walked her back to her room, chattily making remarks about random artifacts as they passed back through the dining room and towards that polished staircase. In thirty seconds she learnt that several of the paintings were originals, that the foundations of the building weren't early Victorian but could be dated back to the mid-1500s at least, and that there was a little cellar somewhere that had probably functioned as a dungeon of some sort. As to the latter, she was told, it was apparently haunted.

Which wasn't exactly something she'd needed to hear right before fumbling about in the dark in a strange room all by herself, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Glorfindel swept another flourishing bow when they reached the suite. "Until we meet again!"

Fiona tried for a terrible curtsey. "Which I'm guessing means tomorrow?"

"Correct! I'll be accompanying you back to New Imladris. Someone has to make sure you don't get bored." He swung the door open and indicated that she could go first.

Erestor wasn't anywhere to be seen, and Fiona said a hasty good night, shuffling into her own room before he came back. The idea of the serious Noldo stomping around in a fluffy dressing gown made her clap a hand over her mouth before she started laughing.

She still wasn't all that tired, but figured that it would be better to get some sort of rest anyway. Something told her the Elves were early risers. Collapsing once again into the ridiculously comfortable bed, she pulled the sheets up and let her eyes rest on the canopy above her in the darkness.

Sleep only claimed her a long time later, when her thoughts had slowly settled, and Glorfindel's words of encouragement had set her mind at rest.

OoO

The next morning began with a battle in the bathroom that Fiona had little expected would befall her.

As Lindir had promised, the facilities were definitely modern. To the point that the water was controlled by waving a hand in front of a sensor.

It took a lot of waving and flailing around to get the pressure and temperature right – it would rush out in freezing torrents one moment before suddenly running hot the next. If anyone else in the stately building woke to splashing, gasping and muffled cursing echoing from the bathroom, then no one said a word.

She staggered back out of there in a hurry, stuffing one arm then the other through the old blue cardigan with the holes in it and hastening back to her room. With any luck New Imladris would have more normal shower facilities, and in the meantime she had to hope that she didn't smell too offensive to her Elven fellow-travellers. She looked down at her pajamas.

A rather bizarre thought occurred to her: did Elves wear pajamas? She supposed they had to sleep in something. Unless, of course, they preferred to go commando…

The image of a naked, brooding Erestor followed by a naked, cavorting Lindir crossed her mind before she could stop them.

A knock on her door made her jump. She went over, hesitated, then knocked back with a grin.

"Very funny." It was Lindir's voice, a note of amusement in it. "I take it you are awake."

"Sure am! Just let me get dressed."

"As you wish, King's Daughter."

The clothes she tossed out of her duffel and onto the bed were fairly practical – jeans, top, jumper. She threw them on before snatching her coat, which she had folded as neatly as she could the night before over the (no doubt antique) chair that sat near the window.

Unsurprisingly, both blacksmith and musician were fully dressed when she poked her head in. Glorfindel strode in a second later. "Good morning!" he bellowed.

Erestor muttered an Elvish something that didn't sound overly complimentary. The comment, whatever it was, earned a chuckle from Glorfindel. "I don't think anyone's spoken so endearingly to me in the Old Tongue in centuries."

The _old tongue_ she took to mean Quenya, which would explain why it sounded harsher than the Sindarin she had been hearing in snatches recently.

Breakfast was downstairs, where other be-suited and perfectly made-up guests were already seating themselves amid quiet chatter. Fiona glanced down at her jeans. It seemed she was destined to be constantly underdressed in one way or another.

"Just how expensive is this place?" she asked Lindir in an undertone. "Those are some pretty fancy-looking people over there."

"I believe this place has always housed…fancy-looking people. Probably ever since it was opened as a guest-house in—"

"The mid-1500s?" she guessed aloud, remembering one of Glorfindel's comments earlier.

There was a smile from Lindir in response. "A historian's daughter indeed. I believe it was probably a nobleman's house during the 1500s, though, and was sold to a merchant family a mere 150 years later. They became the proprietors for a long time after that – right up until Erestor bought it at the turn of the last century."

Erestor and Glorfindel spoke to one another in that other form of Elvish all through breakfast, and though Fiona couldn't understand a word of it, just watching it was an amusing sight. A terse reply from Erestor would send Glorfindel into peals of booming laughter, and once or twice she could have sworn the former's lips actually twitched. _Wow. Major respect for anyone who can get Erestor close to laughing._

Idly, she wondered how far it was to New Imladris from London. A few hours of having the two of them forced to share the same cramped space might prove interesting.

Eventually Glorfindel took out his phone, wiping his eyes after an apparently hilarious exchange. Surreptitiously Fiona glanced down at the screen, noting his sudden frown as he scanned a text message.

"Narweth's here."

Surprise flitted across Lindir's face, while something unreadable crossed Erestor's.

"Um, what is a Narweth?" Fiona looked at the others searchingly, but clearly amid the hurried movement no one was going to tell her what was going on.

Erestor was the first to get to his feet. "In that case, Lindir and I will leave immediately." It might've just been her, but there seemed to be a rough edge to his voice. "Glorfindel, would you be so kind as to make our apologies?"

"You're leaving me to deal with her?" exclaimed Glorfindel.

"Hey!"

"Not you, Fiona. I meant Narweth." The look he shot in Lindir's direction was plaintive, and the expression sat oddly on his masculine features.

Lindir paid no attention to him. "Narweth is not that bad," he said to Fiona. "Our resident Balrog-slayer's dramatic eye-rolling back there can be ignored. I'm sorry for the sudden change of plan."

As Fiona watched him leave with Erestor, she swallowed back the irrational thought that she was losing the only person she'd spent any extensive amount of time with over the last few days. He'd been the first Elf she'd ever seen, and…well, that kind of made him special. Or something like that.

 _It's okay. Glorfindel's around, and I don't have any choice about this no matter how nervous I get._ She clenched her teeth, relaxing her jaw quickly when said Elf gave her a funny look. _Get it together. You'll be fine._

After reaching her room she packed up her broken duffel once again, and seeing no other choice, she picked it up in her arms and heaved it out towards the staircase. At this point she probably looked fairly ridiculous but didn't care.

She teetered her way down every step, dangling her foot in the air until it met soft carpet, then dumped the whole lot onto the floor when she reached the bottom. There Glorfindel stood with a big smile on his face, chatting away in Elvish to a silent figure who could only have been the formidable Narweth.

Narweth was undeniably beautiful, in a cold and scary way. Dressed in an impeccable black dress and smart jacket, she projected an air of high intelligence, efficiently filing away bits of information behind the brightest, greenest eyes that Fiona had ever seen. Waist-length hair the colour of flame was held back from her pale face in a neat ponytail. She didn't seem to care that her pointed ears were showing.

She spoke over the top of Glorfindel, who rambled to a halting stop in whatever Elvish dialect he was using. "You must be Fiona." Her voice was clean and ringing and strangely made Fiona melt into puddles. "How do you do?"

They were almost exactly the same words Glorfindel had greeted her with the night before. They sounded so different.

"I'm great!" she said with a bright smile to hide her nerves in front of so intimidating a being. _Man, and I thought the guy Elves were pretty._ "So, Narweth, right? Doesn't that mean something to do with fire in Elvish?"

Those intelligent green eyes fixed a look of open incredulity on her. "She is serious?"

"Oh, be nice for a change!" exclaimed Glorfindel, the edge behind the cheery reprimand only just noticeable. "Our latest Heir hasn't had the opportunity to learn much of our tongue as yet. She found out about our existence but two or three days ago and is doing remarkably well."

Fiona had the inexplicable feeling that he was subtly defending her from what could have quickly degenerated into a nasty insult and suddenly felt very grateful for his support. She didn't dare communicate it though, not with Narweth's almost visible cogs grinding around behind her stare. No doubt she was completing a mental assessment of her at that very moment, filing away whatever she could for future use.

"Mmm. We'll see."

That might've been a threat of some sort or a mere statement. Fiona didn't have the time to think about it as she followed Narweth outside with her bags, Glorfindel a reassuring presence at her back.

* * *

A/N: I really wanted to have Wales happen in this chapter but the other characters just had to have their say and, well, at least one of them is a massive chatterbox. Never fear, we'll get to New Imladris very shortly. (As an aside to the Glorfindel fans, I hope this one fulfilled your expectations!)

Not to spoil anything, but some of the other Elves you lovely readers have mentioned will be popping up in future chapters, so stick around! :) Keep the wonderful comments coming, I really appreciate it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Wow, thank you for the reviews/faves/follows! You guys are awesome for sticking around. :D**

This was going to be Chapter Nine, but I went back and did some re-writing and put a couple of chapters into one. I've also added a new bit at the start of the very first chapter that hopefully lends a bit more insight into the Rivendell Elves' ongoing connection to Aragorn's family.

 **Anonymous review replies**

Diarona: Wow, thank you! Reading your comments made me smile so much. To be fair, I've set aside stories written by published authors to read fanfic before – Middle-Earth will always be my favourite place. Thank you very much! :D

CHAPTER EIGHT

Between Narweth's one-word responses and Glorfindel's incessant attempts at just talking about whatever popped into his head ("Look! I wonder what animal _that_ used to be."), Fiona knew as she stared out the window and tried not to sigh that it was going to be a long car trip.

Everyone's luggage had been expertly loaded into a Land Rover that waited around the side of the house by the ubiquitous Gareth. Now that there was daylight, Fiona had the opportunity to briefly admire the stonework and the most definitely Renaissance-looking turret sticking out against the sky towards the back. The pointy part was a whimsical Victorian addition, clearly, but the merlons that ran discreetly around the tower hinted at its more practical past.

Narweth had stepped gracefully into the front seat, not seeming the least bit uncomfortable in her heels and dress. She didn't even sit on her long hair. By contrast, Fiona had tripped while gawking and nearly slammed into the car door before trying to fling it open. Glorfindel kindly refrained from saying anything before climbing into the backseat next to her.

The view outside as they sped away from London along the M4 looked much the same as the ones she was used to seeing in Australia – exit ramps and bridges and fields with cows in them – but what really held her interest were the trees. Not a single eucalypt or wattle, and not one scorched trunk in sight. Being from a country that saw regular bushfires over the summer probably had something to do with her fascination. She kept looking for char marks and couldn't find them.

After a while, she realised that with all this time suddenly on her hands, she could start sorting through the scattered bits of information she'd managed to glean about Project Find-The-Palantír. She started rummaging through her bag for her notebook while Glorfindel piped up again ("Narweth, my dear, have you ever tried maple syrup in croissants?"). However the ancient book with its wrinkled pages, yellowed from the time she spilled orange juice all over it, wasn't there. _Damn. I must've taken it out during the Great Purge of the Bag._

Her phone was the next best option. It didn't look very academic, but a good historian used whatever materials she had at her disposal.

Opening her Memo app, she titled a new note _Project Find-The-Palantír_ (that was its name now, there was no going back). Underneath she typed:

 _Mensa Rotunda – 12 board members; been around since Fourth Age protecting Middle-Earth. People other than Elves looking for it; means that someone must know what it is. But how? And who?_

Fiona absentmindedly tapped her lip. It helped to have it in writing, but only just. She frowned at the first few sentences she'd written. It really bugged her that she didn't know who else would think to look for the seeing-stone. Only Elves, or the occasional descendant of one, would really have cause to believe that seeing-stones were real and that there was one rolling around somewhere.

Unless, of course, there were other old denizens of the ancient world hanging around who wanted it for something. People – or things – who were rather less committed to good than the Elves—

"I understand the appeal of the phone screen must be positively enthralling," said a female voice languidly from the front seat. "Or at least it must be for your generation." Narweth hardly turned her head as she spoke.

Fiona couldn't possibly have missed the subtle insults aimed at her intelligence and age, but had no idea what to say to that.

"We're hardly better, to be honest," said Glorfindel, who probably hadn't missed the red flush in her cheeks. "When was the last time we went without our phones for a long period of time?"

"You make a good point, but our usage of such things is limited to business and other…more necessary things."

That pause made Fiona bristle and bite back a sudden retort, awe of Narweth forgotten in a rush of annoyance.

"You forget about Legolas' rather less _necessary_ adventures on Instagram," said Glorfindel cheerfully, and Fiona took some savage satisfaction at seeing Narweth's shoulders twitch.

"Besides, I'm writing notes," she put in, trying to keep her tone light and probably failing.

There was no further comment on the subject from Narweth after that.

Fiona turned back to her phone after a few moments, discreetly putting it beneath the coat slung over her lap so she could make the rest of her notes in peace – though she knew she wasn't fooling anyone.

 _Letters: wealthy family, possibly owned missing palantír during WWI._

Of course. That's why the Elves wanted to try and find who donated the letters to the museum. Presumably it was a descendant or relative of the original writer – and if that was the case, they could find out what the family had done to their heirloom.

Which begged the question: how had it become an heirloom to some random family in the first place? Lindir had said that the thing hadn't actually awoken until the war, which probably meant it hadn't shown any images for years. _People keep weird things in the family but storing away a black glass ball with nothing in it seems like a really odd thing to do._

The whole saga was getting convoluted, and Fiona was glad to put away her phone for a while and keep staring out the window at the subtly changing landscape.

Narweth eventually broke the silence when Glorfindel began struggling to keep talking. "How old are you, Fiona?"

"Uh, 22," said Fiona, preparing herself for another smoothly-executed insult.

To her surprise, none came.

"Have you ever ridden a horse?"

"I've never really had reason to." _Where is this going?_

"We'll have to remedy that. New Imladris has horses aplenty."

The Fiona Lockwood of a few days ago would probably have smiled politely at the comment even as she inwardly recoiled in terror at the idea of sitting astride a live animal. For some reason, though, the version of her that had lately been influenced by Elvish honesty pushed her way to the front, blinking and saying finally, "Why on earth would I want to ride a horse?"

Glorfindel burst out laughing and a small smile curved Narweth's lips. "You may wish to when the time comes," she said. "The Eldar were the ones who first spoke with voices, awakening other living things to speech, and now they speak back."

"I'm going to be talked at by a horse?" asked Fiona doubtfully.

Narweth actually grinned at that. It transformed her face, bringing warmth to her otherwise cold features. And it also disappeared in a flash, replaced by Narweth's mask of neutrality. "All those of Elvish descent, no matter how clouded their lineage may be with Mortal blood, carry some traits of their ancestors. One Heir – your great-grandmother, I believe – had a natural aptitude for healing."

"I never met her," said Fiona in surprise, "but I did hear stories. My mum said she had magic in her hands. Maybe that wasn't far from the truth."

"Indeed not."

"Speaking of magic," Fiona said, emboldened, "Lindir mentioned that some weird things were involved with the _palantír_ awakening, but didn't really elaborate."

"Oh, yeah." Glorfindel was clearly warming to the task of keeping up the chatter. He stretched his long legs a bit as he spoke. "He was absolutely right. It was just before and even during the First World War when other tales of horror began slowly leaking out of some areas of London. Ghost stories."

"Yeah, that would make sense," Fiona mused. "The Victorians were obsessed with ghost stories and it didn't stop until the 20s when gangster novels began coming out."

"Very good," murmured Narweth from the front seat, sounding mildly surprised. Fiona suppressed the childish impulse to poke her tongue out in triumph.

Glorfindel didn't seem to notice. "Yep. Most of them were just your typical Gothic-type spook – you know, white ladies drifting down staircases, vanishing children, soldiers re-enacting their deaths on the battlefield. We didn't pay much attention to it because, you know, post-Victorians. Anyway, no one really noticed until there were repeated sightings of one particularly lively spirit." He paused for effect. "The Winged Lady."

"I dunno," said Fiona uncertainly. "Tolkien wrote about you guys and Orcs and Dark Lords, but I don't remember the supernatural really being canon."

Glorfindel looked at her incredulously. "My dear girl, have you forgotten the Ringwraiths? They were ghosts – well, sort of. Wraiths are a little different to ghosts. Or the Barrow Wights who inhabited the ancient tombs of Eriador? The powers of the wizards, Thorin Oakenshield's curse on the Troll hoard, the mysterious skills of the Mortal Drúedain who could make their own statues come to life. Not to mention, the vampire Thuringwethil, or her friend Draugluin the werewolf, or your own ancestor Lúthien—"

"Alright, alright!" Fiona protested with a smile. "I get it. I just hadn't really thought about it before. So what's up with the Winged What's-Her-Beard?"

"Well, the last time we saw anything of the Winged Lady, it was right before the French Revolution. _La Dame Ailée_ , they called her. The time before that, it was the persecution of the Catholics in England. And the time before that, there was a plague. Medieval biological warfare is fascinating, you know. If you sent even one infected person into a city, it could fall within days.

"In any case, wherever we've seen this Winged Lady, bloodshed of some sort usually follows. It made sense that she was appearing before and during the War."

"Who is she?" Fiona tried to keep her tone to one of mild curiosity.

Glorfindel grimaced. "Do you know, I have no idea. My first guess was originally that she was some sort of omen. Something left over from the days when the Valar would send news or warnings to Middle-Earth, and she just sort of kept popping up. But then," he said, lowering his voice (and clearly enjoying himself far too much), "it occurred to us that the one thing that kept uniting the events was not necessarily war or pestilence, but _blood_. She specifically liked appearing whenever blood was involved."

"Like…a vampire." Fiona's voice came out flat.

His answering smile was enigmatic. "I suppose that small event where a whole medieval town started eating weird things should've tipped us off, but we don't always see these things while they're happening. This is why history is so important to us. If you can look on past events and see patterns, you can prevent a lot of evil in the future.

"Plus, there was the fact that this lady always had blood staining that dreadfully stereotypical white dress of hers. Her wings? They were those of a bat. And after a while, the tales circulating London started to take on a whole new dimension." He looked at her directly. "What do you know about ghosts?"

"Aside from the fact that they're not supposed to be real?" ventured Fiona. "Uh, they're usually kind of transparent, they haunt places that were important to them in life, they can sometimes talk to the living but can't hurt them."

"Bingo. Now, what would you say about a ghost who actually attacked people? Usually by ripping their throats out?"

"They're probably not a ghost."

"Right again. So, though we were far away from where all this was happening, Elrond sent myself and Legolas to London mere days before war was officially declared to meet up with Erestor, who was a lawyer at the time." He shrugged. "Erestor had to be pretty careful about his activities given he was in the public eye with cases every day. But find her we did, and one wooden stake later, we thought that was the end of that."

"But it wasn't," Fiona supplied.

A shake of the head. "Nope. I don't know where Bram Stoker got the idea from, but apparently a wooden stake through the heart does bugger-all to keep vampires dead. We figured that out when she appeared right before Hitler's adventures in Germany."

"So what does she have to do with the _palantír_?"

"We know not." Narweth spoke up, having been silent for most of the exchange. "All we know is that she was asking about it. And clearly getting no response, if the trail of corpses was anything to go by. Those letters from the museum are the first thing in centuries that even mentions the _palantír_. If they're the only link to the seeing-stone, then you can be sure that whatever this lady is, she'll want them."

"Well, this just went to a whole new level of creepy." Fiona shuddered. "What about you, Gareth? Do you believe in vampires and ghosts?"

The chauffeur shrugged. His ordinary appearance masked keen hearing. He'd probably been following the conversation and listening intently. "Never used to. Didn't really think about it. But then Legolas the Elf pops up to hire you as his driver and you end up wondering what else is out there."

OoO

The road began narrowing after a while, when they were well past Cardiff. Disappointment coloured Fiona's mood when she realised that firstly she wouldn't be able to see the city, and secondly that they clearly weren't going to eat for a while. She had to wonder whether they'd gotten their genealogy right – she certainly seemed more like a Hobbit than a dignified descendant of Lúthien.

She soon forgot about her stomach as they passed into open country, where the road alternated between running along the feet of wooded hills and through fields that had what looked like old ruins standing in the middle of them. Glorfindel didn't even bother hiding his amusement at her attempts to contain herself. Australia didn't have castles hundreds of years old just chilling in its paddocks and she couldn't help pressing herself against the window and letting out little exclamations whenever she could catch a glimpse of tower or wall.

She managed to get one half-decent photo that wasn't too blurred, and she sent it straight away to Mackenzie. After hesitating a moment, she also sent it to her dad. Knowing him he'd probably forget to reply, but at least he'd know she'd made it to the UK safely.

There was something about the land that seemed subtly magical, and only half-consciously she wondered whether it was because they had crossed into Elvish country. It certainly seemed so.

When they stopped, it was at a town whose name had far too many Ls in it for Fiona to humiliate herself trying to pronounce. Beneath an overcast sky green grass covered rolling hills crowned with trees. Clearly the village had been founded long ago – between modern houses were ones with ivy rambling over the walls, and even turrets jutting out here and there. The people wandering around in the streets cheerfully ignored their picturesque surroundings while she hopped out of the Rover.

It looked just like a town from _Midsomer Murders_. Only, hopefully, without the murders.

The petrol station they pulled up at was built alongside an old house that had been converted into a restaurant, and Lindir was already there, leaning against the wall with arms folded as Erestor filled up the car. The fact that the latter seemed to be pointedly ignoring the presence of Narweth didn't escape her observation, and she once again had to work to suppress her curiosity.

Mystery was beginning to feel like a familiar theme with these Elves.

"There you are," Lindir exclaimed at their approach, and his smile widened when he looked directly at her. Of course – she was wearing his 170-year-old scarf. "I hope you're still up for travelling with us. Being locked up in a car for hours on end with Glorfindel—"

"I'm perfectly endurable," said Glorfindel, the very picture of wounded innocence. "I don't know why everyone has to make such a bloody fuss."

Waiting until the well-built Balrog-Slayer had gone to harass Erestor, Lindir glanced at Fiona. "Did he actually stop talking at all?"

"He did his best not to. We did get to hear his best guesses for every bit of roadkill we saw, and I totally know his recipe for caramel cheesecake now."

They must have looked quite a sight, with so many Elves gathered in one place and dragging a confused university student behind them, but they didn't get nearly as many blatant stares. Maybe the people here were more open to the uncanny than the down-to-earth people she knew back home. _This country kind of lends itself to myth and_ _legend_ , she thought as she surveyed the hills _._

It became clear that Erestor's avoidance of Narweth wasn't one-sided. The red-haired _elleth_ seemed to be staying just as far away from him in her own subtle way, not by mirroring his hardened look but passing over him languidly as though he were hardly there. She was very good, but there was a moment – hardly a split second – that Fiona caught just before they sat down inside the restaurant. A barely perceptible strain came over her masked features, and she realised Narweth was finding it hard to keep up.

Lindir happened to be seated next to her, and it was to him that she turned and whispered, "What is even up with those two?"

"Ah, you've noticed, have you? Shall I tell you something?" He lowered his voice to the point that she had to lean close to hear him. A strand of his long brown hair tickled her nose. "It's a secret."

Fiona rolled her eyes. He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way they did.

"You need to wait, King's Daughter. I'm not going to gossip right _now._ "

Fiona sighed and reached for a bread roll. There were bits of butter in tiny glass bowls, one of which she reached for before taking the sharp knife at her place.

All around her she heard mixed English and Welsh, with the table attendants switching fluidly from one to the other. Despite the buzz of conversation she still heard her phone vibrate loudly from her bag on the floor, which reminded her that maybe she should try calling Dean later. Already her last talk with her dad sounded like it had happened in another life, she thought as she buttered her roll. He'd probably want to know the name of that castle she'd sent him in the—

"Ow!" She dropped the knife and glared down at the source of the sudden pain. A line of blood appeared on her thumb, red blooming against the pallor of her skin. "Dammit!"

"Oh, that looks a little nasty," piped up the college-age waiter, peering over her shoulder as she snatched up a napkin. "The loo's just round the corner if you want to get it washed up."

"Yeah, I think I might." She stood up, ignoring Narweth's open look of disdain. "You wouldn't happen to have Band-Aids, would you?"

"I can always go check, miss."

Her own napkin was already full of wet red patches. She picked up Glorfindel's. "Mind if I use this?"

"Go nuts."

Reflecting for a brief moment on how odd it was to hear one of Tolkien's legendary Vanyar employing the phrase _go nuts_ , Fiona shook her head and made her way in the general direction that the waiter had pointed her. It was rather unfortunate that she was bleeding everywhere or she would've stopped to admire the make of the polished bar as she passed it, only having a quick guess at how old it was. The subtle art deco swirls that ran around the edges hinted at the 20s or 30s.

The hallway that contained the bathrooms was a little narrow, and as she neared the door she saw a white sheet of paper hastily stuck on it.

OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE USE TOILETS OUTSIDE.

"Outside? What?" Fiona frowned at the badly-drawn arrow indicating where the second set of bathrooms were. The image of her having to pull a Bear Grylls and tapping a tree for water flashed across her mind, and she hoped they didn't mean the actual toilet was outside. Not in this day and age, surely.

She followed the arrow and set off down the hallway, pushing open an old door that creaked open onto a small, neatly-kept garden. There were signs that indicated the toilets were just around the corner, attached to the petrol station, but something else caught her attention and made her stop abruptly in her tracks. The napkins fluttered to the ground.

The man staring back at her – it was Mr. Droopy Moustache from Erestor's hotel in London. The guy she'd caught wandering around with nothing but a towel around his waist.

His hair was considerably more dishevelled, and his hands were clenching and unclenching nervously at his sides. Bloodshot eyes bored into hers, crazed and unblinking.

Fiona was no adventurer. But something primal suddenly surged through her, every one of her senses giving the same direct, urgent order. _Go. Get out. Now._

But precisely because she was no adventurer, she immediately squashed the discomfort with the cool logic of her more academic side. She needed to wash her hands, and right over there was a toilet. She'd seen plenty of crazy people around her home city before. The best way to get past them was to ignore them.

A strange rasping sound had replaced his breathing, and his wide eyes strayed to her hand. The blood was streaking down onto her palm now, crimson and warm. Hunger warred with terror upon his features at the sight of it. His nostrils flared.

There was no ignoring that. Instinctively Fiona began to back away towards the door she had just emerged from. Her heart picked up its pace. Bits and pieces of conversation with Glorfindel and Narweth this morning flashed incoherently through her mind. It couldn't actually be happening—

He spoke through his breathing only with difficulty, hands shaking. The words were indistinct. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

Her trembling hand was on the door handle. She wished she could say something herself, but when her mouth moved no sound came out.

 _Where are they?_ Lindir, Erestor – even Narweth would be welcome company about now.

He was still trying to talk. She caught the words then. His eyes started to water.

"I – I'm sorry, I am so sorry."

And with that, he leapt at her with teeth bared, mouth stretched open grotesquely in a face no longer human.

Many thanks go to lovely reader **Kitty of Two Kingdoms** , who actually lives in Wales and kindly offered her help in telling me about the area, as well as suggesting some pretty cool ideas for future chapters.

 **Questions? Comments? Fire away!**


	9. Chapter 9

_A belated Merry Christmas and a happy new year to all of you lovely readers!_

CHAPTER NINE

Fiona nearly ripped the door off its hinges.

She could hear him bursting in behind her with a grunt as she ran. The door handle smashed into the wall and shuddered.

Caught in a numbing tide of shock and bits of vampire lore from about ten different fandoms, the one coherent thought that surfaced was: _I don't even have a napkin on me, let alone a stake._

A loud BANG echoed up the hallway.

Her ears were ringing while she watched, dazed, as Mr. Droopy Moustache flopped to the carpeted floor like a rag doll. She whipped around. Narweth was standing there in the corridor, slowly lowering a pistol. Her green eyes strayed to Fiona's hands, both of which now were streaked with red. The look on her face was unreadable.

Erestor skidded to a halt behind her. He took one look at the man howling in agony on the floor before his burning eyes fell on Narweth. Her own icy green stare met his grey one levelly.

"You knew," he said flatly. "You knew one of these – these _creatures_ was in the vicinity and still you let the King's Heir wander about dripping blood."

"What are you talking about? I couldn't have known," retorted Narweth, but her downcast eyes betrayed her guilt.

Fiona felt her eyes narrowing. Terror momentarily flared into anger. "Did you let me wander down here on purpose?"

Any answer she might have received was cut off by Lindir's sudden arrival. His eyes quickly assessed the scene before he spoke quietly to the Noldo at his side, whose mouth made a thin line. "You are not at your best when angered."

Erestor gritted his teeth. "I know. But I am loath to leave you to deal with this when I know full well what may happen when…" He trailed off into a glaring, pointed silence.

"I have better mastery of myself now than ever I did. You need not worry for me."

"Where have I heard that before?" Erestor muttered. Without another look at Narweth, he pushed past her and disappeared.

Maybe Fiona should have been feeling surprised or horrified or something – but at this point, after that initial bolt of fear, it felt like just another thing she was discovering about the world she thought she knew. Just more pieces of floor breaking off beneath her feet.

Tolkien did mention at least one vampire, so why not? Maybe there were even descendants of Shelob still hanging around in unexplored caves. It wasn't impossible.

What sent shivers through her was not that they lived, but that such voracious appetite and hate did. That they had been directed solely at her mere seconds ago. That they lurked beneath a human veneer.

There was no going back from that kind of knowledge.

She was aware of Lindir gripping her shoulders. "Please tell me he didn't hurt you."

"No, no. It's fine. Narweth…shot him before he could." All the fight had drained out of her. _I sound like I've been doing this all my life._

How much of herself was she losing already?

Numbness stole over her.

She heard Lindir's sigh of relief. "Thank the Belain. Uh, Fiona, I'm sorry to have to ask you to move, but if you step aside I can then ask this gentleman a few questions."

She nodded, shifting aside and holding a hand protectively over her still-bleeding one. Narweth's red hair was a distraction in the fringes of her vision, red as the blood staining her fingers.

Lindir was kneeling down next to the man still whimpering on the floor. Had she not been feeling so disoriented, she might have almost felt sorry for him. But the memory of that black hate, his mouth open, squashed any compassion she might have had.

"I suppose you know what the first question will be," said Lindir flatly.

"And you know what the answer is," hissed Mr. Moustache through teeth clenched with pain.

Shrugging, Lindir started digging through his coat pockets. "Ordinarily I would afford you the chance to explain yourself without resorting to other measures. But," he said, his usually merry eyes suddenly darkening, "you could've hurt someone under my protection, and quite frankly I don't take kindly to people who attack my friends without provocation. And besides, we're in a hurry."

Without ceremony he took out a small silver crucifix from his pocket. Mr. Moustache's eyes widened. Immediately he struggled to move away but Lindir pinned his wrist firmly to the floor.

"Honestly, I don't think that you've been on the dark side for long," he continued, notwithstanding his captive's flailing. "What I do know is that those afflicted by Thuringwethil's curse only turn if they are willing to embrace her life."

Mr. Moustache stopped wriggling for a moment, confusion on his pained face. "Thing what?"

"Thuring—oh, forget it. A vampire. You were willing to become one, yes?"

The man's jaw was working, trying to deny it. "I – I—"

"As I thought. You're complicit in this crime. So, tell me, why should I have any mercy on you?" He held the crucifix closer.

"No, no!" screamed the man, flinching away.

It was astounding. Legends were coming to life before Fiona's eyes. Her wound was still slowly seeping.

"I repeat: why should I have any mercy on you? I need an answer, or this—" Lindir lowered the crucifix towards him again. "—will go on your face."

"I don't know!" The man sobbed out, a pitiful sound. "I don't know any of them!"

"Really?" Lindir said flatly. "I am unconvinced." The crucifix edged closer.

"No! I don't, I swear! Only one – called himself Dietrich. He – he said all I'd need to do was help get something for him." His eyes, filled with both terror and the hungry remnant of his less human self, flickered over to Fiona. "That's all I know! Get that away from me!"

"See? Was that so hard?" The crucifix vanished into Lindir's coat again. "Now, are you sure you want to continue like this?"

Violent shaking of the head. "No! I never signed up for this, I swear!"

"Bully for that. Thank you for your assistance." Then without warning Lindir thumped his head hard enough against the floor that all sound from Mr. Moustache ceased abruptly.

Fiona timidly stepped out from behind the small table that she hadn't even noticed she'd edged towards. "Please tell me you didn't just kill him."

The Elf blinked in disbelief. "Of course not. I merely rendered him unconscious. It is a mercy – this way he will not feel any more pain from his knee until he wakes."

"Are you done now?" If rolling one's eyes could take vocal form, Narweth would have done it perfectly.

Lindir's own tone could have matched it. "Well, obviously. Fiona, we need to go."

Weirdly, Fiona found herself unable to move. She heard his words but her limbs refused to cooperate.

A shot suddenly ripped through the air. Behind them, Narweth was already grimly taking aim even as another guy burst through the door and was sent screaming to the floor.

"Go. Now." Her voice was steel.

This time there was no hesitation. They bolted down the hallway to the sounds of screaming and cursing echoing after them.

Lindir all but screeched to a halt, Fiona slamming into him. She caught sight of Erestor shouting commands from the middle of the dining room, herding shrieking people out the door.

The transformation in Glorfindel was incredible. His blue eyes burned with the light of battle as he swiped knife after glinting knife off the tables.

Of course. They were silver.

Lindir glanced at him. "Will you be alright?"

Glorfindel made a dismissive gesture. "Narweth and I will deal with whoever's left. You two just get the hell out of here."

"Wasn't planning on hanging around," mumbled Fiona, feeling sick and finding herself clinging to Lindir's hand with her own clammy one as they raced for the doors.

He rummaged through his pocket as they went, all but throwing the crucifix at her when they reached the carpark. She fumbled it with her shaking fingers.

"Keep that," said Lindir breathlessly. "You may have need—"

He was interrupted by a lone figure bolting straight across the road towards them. Dark-haired, red-eyed. His eyes narrowed in triumph as they fell upon her. Teeth bared in a determined snarl, he leapt like a parkour ninja over cars and picnic benches.

 _It's me_ , she realised. It was a moment of sudden clarity. He hardly noticed the Elf beside her, eyes boring into her even from this distance. _They're after_ me.

Why didn't matter at the moment. One thing was for sure – they needed to get out right now.

So on impulse, the historian's daughter did the first thing that came to mind. She inelegantly pitched the crucifix at the racing vampire. Ridiculously, it spun end over end and clipped the side of his dark head.

She didn't even wait to see what it did to him, her ears assaulted by inhuman shrieking as she scrambled into the Rover. There was a thump on the roof as Lindir leapt over it and swung into the front seat.

Her heart was racing as Lindir fixed a glare at her. "What was that?" She didn't have the chance to formulate a stammering reply about why she threw the crucifix before his face broke into a grin. "I knew you'd fit in."

Without warning he slammed onto the accelerator and peeled out of there, narrowly missing the vampire who was still clutching his head. His face was turned away and Fiona couldn't see what the damage was. She sank lower into her seat.

She was flung against the window as they screeched around a bend.

"Hey, I'm in trauma here!" she heard herself yelling. They mowed down a row of bushes.

"We have no time for trauma!" Lindir turned to her urgently. "I need you to drive!"

"What!" She spun around in her seat. Behind them, to her horror, another car was speeding down onto the open road. A blonde woman was hanging out the window precariously, taking aim with a pistol and a savage look on her beautiful face. "Where the hell are they getting all these people?"

"A question for a way less awkward time, King's Daughter! Here, take the wheel!"

 _We need you to toughen up._ Glorfindel's words hit her once again in full force. She'd never expected that this was what he might have meant.

Clenching her jaw, Fiona climbed over the seat, over Lindir, and grabbed the steering wheel off him. "If I die," she yelled, "I'm going to kill you!"

"Let's hope it won't come to that!"

With that, the Elf leapt into the passenger seat, flung the door open and fired with a tiny crossbow that magically appeared in his hand. Fiona was too busy trying to breathe to ask where, exactly, he'd been keeping that weapon.

He was a magnificent sight, if an odd one – all long Elven hair whipping back and a calm, deadly aim. He hardly flinched when a shot erupted behind them, while Fiona in a panic swerved off the road and into the grass.

There was another shot, to which Lindir coolly responded by letting fly with two arrows in rapid succession. Both pierced tyres. In the rear-view mirror their pursuers crashed into a tree. He gave a grim smile and swung back into the car.

Fiona didn't have the opportunity to share his delight, because they were now thundering down a hill at a brain-rattling speed. Hardly able to see from the violent jolting as they bounced downhill, she tried her best to keep her tenuous control of this beast of a car.

"You might want to move this thing back onto the road!" Lindir's voice rang clear despite the jolting and the noise.

A tiny hillock suddenly rose from the slope they were crashing down. Fiona's eyes widened. There was no avoiding it. Stopping without flipping the car was impossible. They'd have to smash their way over it and hope the car's bottom didn't just drop off beneath them. Lindir's gaze fell on the spot she was staring at in horror and he let out a laughing Elvish curse.

She shot him an annoyed look and gritted her teeth. "Well, I'm glad _you_ think this is funny!"

"What happened to your trauma?"

"We don't have time for trauma!"

With steely determination Fiona gripped the steering wheel just as they hit the grassy ramp. There was a moment of strange silence, the grey sky suddenly visible. Reality hit as the Rover landed back on the road with a shuddering crunch.

OoO

Narweth was staring thoughtfully at the two bodies that lay unconscious in the hallway at the back of the restaurant when Glorfindel walked in, whistling and twirling a silver knife.

"How many?" he asked.

She shrugged. "At a guess, I would say there were at least four. The numbers suggest that this was no coincidence. They planned this. I do not know how, but they did."

"A bit arrogant, their assuming that four would be enough to challenge us."

Erestor wiped the back of his forehead. "Lindir mentioned that they were followed in Melbourne. Neither of us were concerned at the time, but perhaps we had reason to be."

"You couldn't have known," said Glorfindel comfortingly. He glanced at the holes in the walls. "We'll compensate the poor owners of this place as soon as we can. Waltzing in off the street and having a Hollywood-style shoot-up crossed over with _Twilight_ isn't a good way to make friends."

Wandering over to one of the bodies – that of an unassuming middle-aged man with no particularly striking features – Glorfindel glanced up at Erestor. "Recognise any of them?"

The Noldo sniffed. "That one. He followed me at Changi Airport."

"Ah."

"Perhaps now would be a good time to discuss how the King's Daughter almost found herself in the clutches of one of our fanged comrades when someone might have taken better measures to protect her yet chose not to." At his side, Erestor's barely contained anger was aimed at Narweth.

Glorfindel frowned. "What are you on about?"

Narweth ignored him, pocketed her pistol and turned around. Her eyes blazed, matching Erestor's ire with her own. "Am I her keeper? I did not know she was bleeding."

"We are all her keepers!" snarled Erestor. "She is but 22 years of age. Inexperienced, bound to make mistakes—"

"Which is no excuse! She should not be with us if she is not prepared!"

"Oh, do shut up, the both of you," interjected Glorfindel lazily. He waved a hand at the bodies. "May I suggest we postpone the fireworks until later? These two might wake up at some point and I'd like to be well gone before then."

Taking a breath to calm himself, Erestor tore his gaze from Narweth and back to him. "I do not think it wise to leave them here in case they do further damage and decide to—"

"Rage-eat someone? You're quite right." Glorfindel grinned. "Actually, I have an idea."

"Being?"

"Throwing them into the back of the Rover and dumping them somewhere in the valley. Or one of them, at least." He glanced at the upturned face of the moustached man, the one who first attacked Fiona. "He is only half-turned, unless I'm mistaken. We could arrange for him to go to a hospital – I'm sure Gareth or John would be happy to come with me and drop him off."

"Done," sighed Erestor. "Let's go."

As he went to move one of the unconscious vampires, Narweth following in terse silence, Glorfindel didn't voice any of the questions that came to mind. Erestor seemed to think that Narweth had some kind of foreknowledge of where the vampires would be. It didn't seem possible.

He had to wonder what Erestor knew that he didn't.

OoO

The road felt smooth after the bumpy ride downhill. Miraculously, the Rover was unharmed and still going. Outside the window the sun briefly emerged from behind a cloud, only to be swallowed up again by the coming grey.

"Where did you learn to drive like that?"

Fiona's mind had ceased frantically trying to catch up with what had just happened and given up. It felt curiously dull, as though wrapped in a thick woollen blanket. Probably trying to protect itself after all the crazy. Part of her brain which was still awake told her that Lindir was trying to keep her from going into shock. "Uh…Mario Kart?"

"What is a Mario Kart?"

"It's a video game."

"Please tell me you are not a gamer."

The horror in his voice made Fiona smile wanly. "No, that's my housemate Ryan."

"So what is this Mario Kart about? I lack education in these matters."

"You have to go flying around in these little go-kart things and win races." She couldn't believe they were casually talking about a kid's game when they'd just been running away from vampires. "It was fun, but I was always pretty bad at it."

"I find that hard to believe," said Lindir. "You kept good control of the car right up until we were airborne. Are you sure that you want to keep driving?"

Fiona nodded. "I need something to keep me occupied. I can't go into shock or panic if I've got somewhere to direct all that adrenaline to."

"Alright. But let me know if you start feeling otherwise."

They kept driving in silence for a long while, Lindir leaning back in his seat. His slightly dishevelled chestnut hair was rather Elvenly and distracting.

When Gareth said that Elves were deadly people, she'd only been half-listening. Watching a tranquil-souled minstrel instantly and easily transform into an interrogator had shaken her, more than she could have anticipated.

It wasn't just him, either. All of them. Glorfindel's strident cheer and terrible jokes. Erestor's quiet strength and his sharp sarcasm. Lindir's easy manner, his quick wit, even his liking for sugary biscuits. They all concealed something much darker. Fine drapery on steel machines.

Lindir was a threat, now. A beautiful Elven terror.

"Were you an assassin?" she asked sharply.

The question seemed to genuinely surprise him. "Pardon? No."

"Then what were you? What was all that…back there?"

"Interrogation. You will notice that no assassinating took place."

"Oh."

The GPS brightly told her to turn right.

Lindir's tone was light, but something told her that now was not the time to be asking him exactly how he had stumbled upon those particular methods of getting information. She took the right turn onto a narrow road that wound through a picturesque valley.

"Um, so with my Sherlock-like powers of deduction, I figure those guys were vampires."

"Well done. Any other deductions?"

"They weren't very friendly."

"Servants of the darkness generally aren't known for being friendly, no. What else?"

She took a deep breath and glanced at him. "They weren't after you guys. I didn't want to make this all about me but – well, there was what the moustache guy said, and then the other dude I chucked that crucifix at. He wasn't watching you. I saw him."

Lindir's eyebrows rose, then lowered into a dark frown as he considered it. "Curious," he muttered. "My guess is that they monitored our movements and figured that you were somehow of importance to us. It would take little planning on their part to have you taken hostage, in exchange for something else. The _palantír_ , perhaps."

"The vampires think you have the _palantír_?"

"Or information about it. I was of the opinion that a seeing-stone would mean little to people who spend their long lives drinking blood and hiding from sunlight. I have it on good authority that they do a lot of sleeping and video gaming."

"Maybe they're bored?" suggested Fiona.

He gave no reply. The next moment she looked he was rummaging through the glove box. "Gareth has a fondness for peanut M&Ms," he explained. "If I am correct he should have some right about – here." Obligingly a box slid out and he shamelessly nicked a few M&Ms from the top.

"Are you all in the habit of stealing each other's stuff?" asked Fiona tiredly, giving up and grabbing a handful when Lindir held the box out.

"I wouldn't quite call it stealing. One thing you might not know about the Eldar is that there are very few things that we truly call our own. We lived in great communities from the very beginning and are still in the habit of sharing. Those things that belong solely to us are usually as a result of ritual."

"Including Erestor's kitchen utensils?" ventured Fiona, remembering Glorfindel's raiding last night.

"No. We need no ritual to stay away from them – Erestor's perpetual grump suffices." He pointed. "And now, look."

Fiona followed his pointed fingers. "Something's happening to the landscape." The colours were both softer and brighter at the same time. The trees, already old in this part of Europe, were steadily becoming taller and the leaves differently shaped from anything she had ever seen. A haze, a glamour, seemed to lie over everywhere she looked. Even the sky itself looked somehow ancient.

Fiona licked her dry lips. "Where are we?"

"This is the Gwaun Valley, or what the Welsh call _Cwm Gwaun_. Once these lands would have been blanketed by forest, whose only light were the new-made stars. The Elves may once have roamed them, singing their songs and awakening the trees to speech. It is a very old place."

They rounded a bend, and in the distance rose a shoulder of the valley. Upon its crest stood what looked like the very edge of a great stone building, rising against the sky.

Her breath hitched. "Is that—"

"Yes." Lindir smiled. "Welcome to New Imladris at last, King's Daughter."

OoO

 **A/N:** A huge thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! One of my absolute favourite things to do is make my fics almost like a collaboration with you guys by asking you what you want to see next. So, what's something you'd love to see happening later on? If you have some ideas, or you want to just gush over your favourite Elf so far, or if you are overcome with the desire to throw something at me for mangling LotR, then go for it!


	10. Chapter 10

**Anonymous review replies**

Codename Agent C: You know, I have no idea how I managed to achieve all that in one update, but mission accomplished. :P I confess I'm relieved that you didn't have any vampires to send after me – I might have been the depressed one after such an encounter. This isn't quite an action-oriented fic, but there will definitely be more adventuring and action later on. (I find action scenes hard to write too, so you're not the only one there!) Apologies for the delay in updating – I hope this one was worth waiting for!

Ninde: Thank you! :)

* * *

CHAPTER TEN

 _Borders of Scotland, early 1740s_

Lindir's expression held a kind of cold serenity, his face beautiful and blank. His brown eyes would have betrayed no emotion even if he had been feeling any.

That mask he habitually wore was hard-won. He'd probably find himself retching into a bush later when he was well away from this place and back on the road. The desire to see the back of his client for good threatened to yank him out of the spot he remained rooted to like a tall, sullen tree.

The young man in question gazed back unblinkingly from behind his desk like a spider hanging unseen in a tangle of old webs in a dark corner. He was a Northern lord, a spoilt creature whose own interrogation methods were legendarily unpleasant. Even now a smile as wide as a child's on the eve of Yule split his cunning face as Lindir delivered, machine-like, the details of this evening's exploits.

"So he did not deliver the answer to you willingly," he stated when the Elf was finished.

Lindir gave a curt shake of the head. "He held out for many hours."

"I see."

His tone was all too satisfied. If he thought to send shivers down Lindir's spine with it though he was sorely mistaken. It might have worked well on the Mortals in his employ, but the Elf had seen far worse over the centuries. Lindir had been alive long enough to see forces of darkness beyond combined Eldarin and Mortal strength gain victory over Middle-Earth. He had been alive during the time of Sauron's first reign, before Isildur cut the Ring from his blackened hand. This small-minded, cruel man was a mere shadow, a caricature.

"You know, I thought as much," continued the young lord. "The colonel's men are rarely so easy to break. He trains them well, I'll give him that." He sat back in his chair and gave a low chuckle. "Not quite well enough to succeed in that last little attempt on my life, though, eh?"

Lindir remained silent.

"Oh, lighten up, Lawrence, or whatever it is you call yourself these days," sighed Lord Alstern. "Relax. Bask in the satisfaction of a job well done."

Lindir gazed back levelly. "You sent for me because you had need of information that might prove difficult to obtain. You paid me to accomplish a task. I did it. There is nothing further for me to…bask in."

"Hmm. Suit yourself."

Alstern rose and went to the window, leaning against its frame pensively as he stared out into the night. His profile might have been a handsome one, with its youthful eyes and well-shaped mouth. He had dark hair that was swept back into a neat tail. Lindir had heard of this lord before, thanks to gossip. Rumours abounded of his penchant for violence, as well as his sordid activities with various young ladies – and young men, in a few instances – and Lindir had done his best not to give them any credence. Mingling with the society of Men for this long had taught him that rumours were often idle and unfounded.

Equally, rumours could also smack of appalling truth, and Lindir's sharp Elven eyes and intuition read more and more truth in Alstern's voice and bearing. He did not like his arrogance, nor his clear lack of compassion, nor the subtle darkness that settled about him like a gathering cloud, and decided then and there that no amount of money – no, not even for the cause in the Highlands – could induce him to ever accept an assignment from him again.

"I have to ask," said Alstern eventually, clearly unaware of Lindir's thoughts, "because I'm curious. Personally, I'm rather fascinated by the histories of the people one meets with. There is always something to learn. What were you before you began this mercenary life?"

 _Thousands of years older than your great-grandfather, that's what. An Elvish musician who wields violin bow and sharpened blade with equal skill._ What was safe enough to tell this man? Nothing, of course.

So Lindir fed him a few half-truths.

"I was well-trained in my youth by men of the military," he said, thinking of Glorfindel showing him how to use a sword, and of Erestor sending arrow after arrow thunking into multiple targets all lined up in a row. "My skills eventually equipped me for a life of travelling to new places, answering to none. And so have I done. It is not a complicated story."

"Indeed not," said Alstern, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I don't believe you for a minute, of course. You can hardly be older than I am. But I can understand that a mercenary may not necessarily wish for the details of his life to be freely circulated about where an old enemy might overhear something to his advantage."

Lindir was unused to going for so long without a smile. This conversation was beginning to wear his patience thinner by the minute.

"I didn't want to be in a position of power as a child, you know," said Alstern, surprising him. "Responsibilities are placed on the shoulders of the children of the nobility very early on in life. I knew from the beginning that I would be chained to a desk, shackled to the land of my forefathers, and likely a prisoner of the society of my esteemed fellow nobles." He made a vaguely disgusted gesture at the window, as though his esteemed fellow nobles were all congregated in his courtyard.

Something in Lindir did resonate with that. The rich were not always vain, superficial people given to playing power games – but often enough, they were, sometimes even in Elven society.

Alstern was stepping towards him, and Lindir felt an inexplicable urge to step back towards the door. But he would not be cowed. Not by this foppish fool.

"What did you want to be, then?" he asked roughly, ignoring Alstern as he began to slowly pace around him. It was a classic intimidation technique, and Lindir was not impressed by it. He was more curious as to what Alstern thought he could extract from him.

"Something else," came the answer. "Anything else. Life did not see fit to change my station, however, so I have resigned myself to it. It is not what I would have wished, but there are parts that are not entirely…unsatisfying."

There was something in his tone of voice that made the hairs on the back of Lindir's neck and arms prickle. Not in fear. In anger. It was the voice of a man to whom people were mere playthings. It was the voice of a man used to getting anything he wanted, as long as he had the coin for it.

"Is there anything else you require of me?" Lindir's voice came out with a good deal more calm than he felt.

"I was wondering, actually." Alstern's footsteps came to a stop just behind the Elf. "I have been longing to ask this for quite a while, if you don't mind." A moment of tense silence passed. Chillingly, a finger began to trace its way down Lindir's jawline. The next words were spoken very softly. "What…other services might you offer, for the right price?"

Insolence.

Alstern's breath was warm on the back of his neck, his fingers softly travelling down Lindir's clavicle, just beneath the ties of his shirt—

Lindir whipped around instantly. Alstern let out a shriek as he found himself bending backwards, restrained by barely any effort on Lindir's part.

A few moments quietly ticked by, punctuated by harsh breathing from Alstern. Lindir did not loosen the iron grip he had on the lord's wrist. For just one fraction of a second, Alstern couldn't hide the glint of fear that flashed in his eyes. The Elf bent close.

"Do not try my patience, lordling."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment before dropping Alstern's hand like a wet fish and turning to go. His footsteps were the only sound, then, soft on the rugs that lined the floor. At least until a quiet _tsk_ ing came from behind him.

"Oh, dear me, no. It is you who should take care of trying mine, _Lindir_."

Lindir froze.

"I thought that might give you pause. I understand a good deal more than you suspect. You know, I don't have the slightest clue who – or indeed what – you are, and fortunately for you I don't care. But, still. Those pointed ears, that pretty face of yours, they're not exactly common, now, are they?"

"Why? Are you jealous?" asked Lindir coolly.

Alstern's dark eyebrow rose by a hair. He stalked away to a cabinet in the corner, and began filling a glass with dark red wine. "Do you know what some of my more medically-minded friends would give for the chance to study something like you?" he asked conversationally. "Well, I say _study_ – it's more like _pick apart_. Vivisections, all that sort of thing. I'm not a scientific man myself, but I'd wager that you would certainly save them the trouble of paying a grave-robber – sorry, resurrection man – for their dead endeavours. If you'll pardon that dreadful pun."

Lindir turned a look on him that would have frozen a wraith. Alstern managed, admirably, to contain a flinch. "I do not fear you or your kind."

"I thought as much," answered Alstern. "That's why threatening you would be pointless. No, Lindir – I am threatening your friends."

A chill ran down his spine. "You would not dare."

"Really? I'm afraid I have to disagree with you," said Alstern flatly. "I know of that tall, golden-haired friend of yours in the Highlands, and that scowling fellow who accompanies him." _Glorfindel and Erestor._ "And I know that given their rather awkward position it would be a simple matter to insinuate that perhaps their Scottish sympathies might extend to, say, an attempt on the Crown?" He smiled over his glass of wine, taking a sip and watching for Lindir's reaction all the while. It was as dark as blood beneath his lips.

He was referring to the brewing rebellion. Treason. An offence that carried the certainty of being hanged.

Or worse, if Alstern managed to get these _medically-minded friends_ of his on board.

He had underestimated the young lord.

"A charge which, I think, could be easy enough to level against you," answered Lindir calmly, squelching down his rapidly rising fear. "For instance, a little bribery might induce one of your tax-collectors to reveal exactly where all that money is going. Or why you seem to have acquired so many horses of late. Or the mere fact that you seem to be in possession of some rather specific information about attempts on the Crown to be a coincidence. I should be more careful if I were you."

Alstern's uncertain pause lasted a brief moment before he shrugged. "And whose word will they take? Mine, an Englishman's – the word of one from an old family, long loyal to the Crown? Or the word of two defectors of no particular family or loyalty?"

Even as a retort rose to Lindir's lips, he realised, with a horrible sinking feeling, that Alstern was right. Life and death in this age had nothing to do with truth. They were all about birth, blood, and what one could prove.

His jaw clenched. How dare he even – this upstart Mortal, whose lineage was as nothing compared to Glorfindel of Gondolin's, or Erestor of Rivendell's – how dare he raise such a threat against the Eldar, who were immortal, who grew but stronger with time, filled with the wisdom of the ages? Who had been there before the first of the Mortal race walked the earth, had been there before the rising of the sun, had been building empires when the very stars were new?

"I do not think you realise whom you threaten," said Lindir in a low voice, his hands flexing at his sides. They were empty words, though, and Alstern knew it.

Though he eyed the Elf's hands warily, the lord at least managed to feign indifference. "Unfortunately for you, I don't particularly care."

Lindir watched, eyes burning in an otherwise dead countenance, as Alstern tipped back the glass. "Now that we've cleared up this misunderstanding, I suppose I should lay down some terms. That would only be fair, wouldn't you agree?"

Lindir said nothing. Again.

Alstern brought his hands together. "Honestly, Lawrence – Lindir – I do want to keep you on. You're good at what you do and I should hate to lose your skills to someone else. Regrettably, it would take a mere slip of the tongue to have your friends carted off to the gallows, or wherever I please, really. Not much effort at all on my part. But," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of sincerity, "it would be my pleasure to prevent such a misfortune by securing your loyalty. And you, in return, have guaranteed employment, and my protective influence throughout all the North."

"I see."

Alstern paused, tilting his head. "No, I don't think you quite see. But no matter. These things will become clear in time. Are we of an accord?"

He held out his hand, looking for all the world like a kindly master offering an elevation of station to his most hard-working tenant.

Masking every feeling of revulsion he had, Lindir reached for the lord's hand. He shook it stiffly.

Alstern did not drop his hand immediately. He looked up into Lindir's eyes, holding his gaze as he ran a thumb gently over the Elf's knuckles.

"So," he said softly, "until I say otherwise, you'll do as I say. You work for me."

Lindir drew back, slowly. Not once did he break eye contact as he allowed a cold smile to spread over his features. Alstern blanched.

"For the time being, maybe. But remember this. The moment I find a way to ensure my friends are safe is the moment your life becomes forfeit. I will come for you. If you dare flee, I will search for you. And once I find you – and believe me, I will find you – I will not rest until your tortured screams begin to bore me."

OoO

 _Present Time_

Fiona's question – the one about whether he had been an assassin – stirred some part of Lindir's memory which had been shut away undisturbed behind doors of long forgetting. Like many Elves, Lindir was in the habit of ensuring that unpleasantness was trapped in some corner of his mind and slowly blown away by time like dust scattered before the wind. The edges were slowly sloughed away, pain worn to weariness, fear and horror and blood dulled to no more than half-recalled dreams.

He glanced at the girl – no, the young woman – next to him, and saw awe and joy dawning on her face as her eyes found the castle of New Imladris. Those red-brown curls of hers nearly seemed to stand up with excitement. She shot him a grin.

He could not help but wonder whether she would be so comfortable with him if she only knew what he was capable of. What he had done.

Lindir of Imladris had been a musician. He had also been an interrogator. He had tortured and bled knowledge out of Ilúvatar knew how many.

This latest Heir who had somehow landed in his care had, perhaps, seen beneath the kindness that he'd taken such great pains to cultivate and show to everyone around him. Lord Elrond had insisted once that it was his gift, one as natural to Lindir as his ear for a tune.

But he was not so sure. What he had done to the vampire…how easy it had been to reach for the crucifix without a moment's hesitation, how easily the questions had come to him. That man had not even been fully-turned. It was true that they had been pressed for time, but…Erestor said that he had been loath to leave him, and he was well within his rights to feel that way.

Because there was a side to the musician that nearly enjoyed torture, and Lindir hated it.

 _I hope you may never have cause to see that side again, King's Daughter_ , he thought, silently making her a promise. _I vowed, with all of Rivendell, that I would look after the Evenstar's children. A poor guardian I have made so far, to give in to myself with so little provocation. This I promise you: I will try harder, and from now on, you will only see what I so desperately wish to be._

Perhaps it went against his Elvish sense of honesty. But it was better that Aragorn's Heir not have to know just how frighteningly close he had been to losing control.

He let the air of Lindon work to soothe his bruised mind, robbed of its usual calm. The land had been so long beneath Elvish influence that it nearly seemed to have raised its hills and grown its ancient trees beneath Elvish hands. It spoke to him softly, wordless comfort twining around his spirit.

Everything would be alright. All of it. The darkness fled, the memories departed. Whatever he may have been or done in the past, the Lindir who had just fought vampires with the King's Daughter was not he.

And, he thought with a grin, this present Lindir was thankfully not much given to angsting while dramatically staring out the window.

OoO

The road curved around the lip of the valley and Fiona had a difficult time trying to keep focussed on driving. There was so much beauty on all sides, untouched – miraculously – by time or by Mortal interference. Even on such an overcast day the view of the valley and the sprawling medieval castle in the distance was breathtaking.

"It feels like time just sort of stopped here," she said. Lindir seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts.

"In a way, it has," he answered. Incongruously, he poked around in the box of un-ancient peanut M&Ms.

"Elvish magic?"

He winced.

"Sorry. Elvish…not-quite-magic?"

"Let's go with that. Do you recall what I said about how the things we care for often end up being the most powerful kind of protection there is?"

Fiona nodded. It was one of the weirder things he had told her.

"We Elves are bound to the world," he explained, "unlike Mortals, who pass beyond its circles after a brief stay. Our love for this Middle-Earth and its wide lands only grows the longer we remain here. And that in turn shields us from unwanted attention."

"Including Google Earth?"

Lindir cracked another handsome grin. "Including Google Earth. It helps that Elrond once was master of another valley, long ago, and knew well how to use Elvish arts to protect it from the darkness."

"Didn't he need a ring for that?"

"Owning Vilya certainly helped, yes, but you will recall that Elrond is a descendant of Lúthien, whose own mother was a Maia. Melian kept the land of Doriath beneath the protection of a most powerful enchantment, and I believe that skill is something Elrond might have inherited."

It was both a comfort and a scary thought that ancient Elvish arts were still able to keep them hidden from Mortal technology. Mortal science was advancing at a rapid pace, and yet old and unknown forces were still more powerful.

It made her wonder what other kinds of unknown forces were still lurking around unbeknownst to humans, and whether those vampires might know something about it.

The thought, however, didn't make her as anxious as it might have. Whatever was protecting this strange corner of Wales seemed to be exerting its own peace on her spirit. She recognised the feeling as being somewhat similar to Glorfindel's subtle manipulation of her emotions.

Glorfindel. She hoped with a sudden pang of worry that he and Erestor – and, grudgingly, Narweth – were alright.

That surge of fear was followed by relief that the Elf beside her was still smiling and in one piece. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was tapping his fingers against the armrest again, hearing music that no one else could. Tranquil as the stillest lake on a windless morning, as though he hadn't spent this afternoon shooting at people.

"Um, Lindir?"

He turned his head, brown eyes patient. She turned her eyes to the road, embarrassed to make eye contact. She tucked a long, errant curl behind her ear.

"I…thank you. For what you did."

He tilted his head.

"For bringing me here," she clarified, waving a hand. "For trying to keep me calm back there with all the…yeah. For doing your best to make this as least weird as possible."

"I'm afraid I probably failed you there," he said with a wry smile. "I doubt Thuringwethil's spawn was what you expected to deal with during your first few days of knowing us."

"Well, no. But despite all that I'm glad that I do know you. All of you," she added hastily, hoping that he didn't notice the heat that was rising to her face. "This beats writing source syntheses any day. Kind of."

She nearly hit her head on the Rover's ceiling when she felt the lightest touch against her hand. If her face was warm before, it must have been flaming red now.

"For what it's worth, King's Daughter," said Lindir, in a tone softer than she'd yet heard him use, "I am glad to know you also."

And his hand was gone again, leaving Fiona feeling somewhat bereft.

The driveway was a long, tree-lined affair that led right up to the old castle – which looked even bigger and more daunting and wonderful up close. Ignoring her disappointment that Lindir's fingers hadn't lingered against hers for longer than she wanted them to, she eagerly turned her attention to the huge historical edifice that she was going to call home for the next few weeks.

For something so old the castle façade was neat and showed no signs of falling into dilapidation just yet. Enormous stone turrets circled by merlons rose against the sky, and Fiona had the feeling that the place extended a lot further behind its walls than she could see right now.

Ahead of her, a figure dropped lithely out of a tree and onto the long driveway. He slung something over his shoulder and walked lightly over the stones. Even on this overcast day she caught a glimpse of blond hair that seemed to shine in the dull air.

She frowned as they rolled past. "Who's that?"

"That would be Legolas," came Lindir's answer. "It looks like he has been hunting."

Fiona nearly screeched to a halt. "Legolas?" she breathed.

Lindir couldn't contain a peal of laughter. She nearly shivered again at just how musical it sounded. He smiled a lot but laughed very little. "King's Daughter, are you…fangirling?"

"No," she shot back, biting back a manic grin. _Legolas. Legolas Thranduillion. Oh my gods._

The Rover rattled strangely beneath her feet. The smell of burning rubber suddenly accosted them and the Rover began veering off to the left. Irritated in the midst of her elation, Fiona glanced in her rear-view mirror, and realised that the black thing she'd left snaking across the driveway back there was tyre.

They rolled to a stop. Lindir immediately undid his seatbelt and slid out of the car. Ignoring the Welsh afternoon cold, Fiona followed suit, sighing as she reached for her hair tie and pulled out her mess of a ponytail. Her hair was going to be a nightmare to wash later on.

"Well," said Lindir, squatting down and peering at the front wheel on the passenger side, "our beloved Rover fought bravely, but I would have been very surprised if we'd managed to make it through this afternoon's escapade completely unscathed."

Fiona saw exactly what he meant. The half of the tyre that was still attached to the wheel was practically peeling off. "Good thing the tyre didn't decide to fly off when we were rolling downhill."

Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her and she heard a voice speak with a distinct smile behind it. "Good afternoon. Another normal day out in the Mortal world?"

"As normal as it gets," answered Lindir cheerfully. "Perhaps you would care to escort Miss Lockwood to the castle? I would feel terrible for leaving the Rover sitting forlornly in the driveway for John or Gareth to fix. They have been through enough today as it is."

"Indeed? This is a story I need to hear later, evidently."

Fiona had turned around at this point and was making a valiant attempt at not showing just how far her heart was beating out of her chest.

There were just…no words to describe Legolas Thranduillion. Like the other Elves she met, he just radiated charm. Blue eyes, pale gold hair – and he was wearing, to Fiona's endless heart flutterings, the kind of green tunic and brown leggings she'd long imagined Elves to wear. And they all fit him quite well.

He openly looked her over and grinned back up at her, utterly unafraid to meet her gaze. "It would be my honour to escort Miss Lockwood the rest of the way. I'm afraid I'm carrying a whole lot of pheasant here, but I trust our walk won't be entirely…un-pheasant?"

Fiona could feel herself melting. "Uh…I…uh…"

"Away with the both of you," said Lindir airily, making a shooing motion. "I will catch up after I have replaced this tyre."

"You heard him," said Legolas, gallantly holding out an arm for her to take. "And now I have you to myself. I've been wanting to meet you for an intolerably long time."

"Likewise," sighed Fiona, taking his arm and trying not to start skipping like a small child.

Behind her Lindir gave an unsubtle cough. " _Fangirl_."

* * *

 **A/N:** As this fic is so history-heavy, I wanted to write a bit about some historical events that have influenced the Elves over the centuries. So there you go – a very quick look into Lindir's head for a bit! The poor fellow has been through a lot more than he's willing to show.

After asking who your favourite Elf so far is, I think I've received the most gushings over Glorfindel – which is awesome, because I love him too. And apparently quite a few of you want to smack Narweth a good one. Which is also fair enough.

Much love and cookies for all of you! :)


	11. Chapter 11

_**The road so far...**_

 _(I'm not even going to apologise for stealing that from Supernatural.)_

 _A lot has happened in ten chapters, and I do realise that there's sometimes a bit of gap between updates!_

 _So, in summary: Fiona Lockwood, Heir of Elessar and history student, accidentally bumps into Lindir of Rivendell. She learns of the existence of more Elves - a whole community of them, in fact, happily living in country Wales and running a huge corporation. Their latest mission? Finding the last palantir before someone with less nice intentions does. Travelling with Lindir, she meets Erestor, Glorfindel and a sullen, calculating elleth named Narweth. Unfortunately, Elves are not the only remnants of old Middle-Earth to still be alive in this day and age. Some rather darker, fanged creatures still haunt the shadows and can apparently drive cars. But with some Elvish fighting skill, Fiona's driving and a craptonne of luck, Fiona manages to somehow arrive at New Imladris in one piece - just in time to meet Legolas Thranduillion._

 _And that's where we're at. Enjoy!_

OoO

 **Anonymous review replies**

CodenameAgentC: By all means, go after the bastard! Something tells me he won't necessarily get away with it. Your review made me very happy, by the way. I like to hear that people are enjoying my stories! Writer's ego. And we'll definitely be seeing more of Legolas. :D Thank you for taking the time to review!

* * *

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The air outside the Rover was cold and still, but between Lindir's Victorian-era scarf and the Elf whose arm she was leaning on, Fiona hardly felt it. If she let go of Legolas for even a moment she would probably go floating off on a cloud of pure euphoria.

And – which was very unlike her usual self – she didn't even mind the animal smell emanating from the brace of pheasants he'd cheerfully slung over his back.

"I honestly wish I'd known you were coming sooner," Legolas said apologetically. "Then I could have greeted you without the…dead birds and the ancient Elf cosplay."

"Oh – no, it's fine," exclaimed Fiona, finally finding her voice and feeling mildly impressed with herself for not sounding like a complete idiot. "I've actually been sort of disappointed that I hadn't seen an Elf in medieval get-up yet, so you're fine."

 _Damn fine_ , echoed a ghetto accent in the back of her head. She decided not to voice that one out loud.

"I'm glad," said Legolas, cheerily oblivious to Fiona's internal struggle. "But I would still have wanted to appear a little better-dressed for the daughter of my most cherished Dúnadan friend. I have already said this, but I can't begin to convey to you just how much I've wanted for us to meet." Familiarly, as though they had already met a thousand times over, he smiled and nudged her with his shoulder.

Fiona stumbled, half in shock. Warrior reflexes came to her rescue as Legolas caught her, callused hand wrapping easily around her upper arm.

"My apologies."

"No, you're all good." Fiona let out a nervous breath. _Get it together. Lindir is pretty, and so is Erestor, and Glorfindel, and Narweth. You've talked to them before, you can talk to Legolas._ "It's really kind of you to say all that, but…why? I know I'm supposedly the descendant of an Elven legend and the King of Gondor and all, but for all you know I might be a massive arsehole."

Legolas' clear laughter rang across the road leading to the castle and startled a flock of birds. "Good gods, you speak like him, too." He grinned down at her, blue eyes sparkling. His light was wilder than Lindir's. "To answer that question, I have always taken an interest in Aragorn's descendants. Arwen was not the only one to request that their children be looked after."

He stopped speaking, and the crunching of gravel beneath their feet was the only sound for a while.

"I see him living still in his children," he said after a moment, "though more in spirit than in looks. The same thoughtful expression, the same sense of duty. His persistence, his stubbornness, his ability to lend comfort to the spirit, his ready smile." The barest ghost of a mischievous grin began to twitch at the corner of his mouth. "The nobility and strength all hidden beneath a shabby exterior…ow!"

Fiona was laughing as she smacked him in the arm, realising only after she'd done it what a bold gesture it was. "Sorry, did you say strength? And what was that about a shabby exterior?"

Legolas was laughing too as they stumbled along. "I said both of those things. Although your exterior is far from shabby." He winked at her with an exaggeratedly flirtatious flamboyance that made her only just hold back a contented sigh.

 _Try to get it together, please,_ sighed her more rational side in exasperation.

They were before the high, solid doors of the castle now. Their wooden surfaces sported stark panels and flowing, swirly ironwork for hinges. Fiona's historian's brain tried to pin down a time period. Unlike many medieval castles, the doors were rectangular instead of set into an arch. The walls were undoubtedly stone, but laid with fastidious neatness, and now that they were up close she could see that a good part of the front looked more like something out of _Pride and Prejudice_ than _Braveheart_.

Except, much older than either of them.

And weirder. There were medieval bits sticking up far behind the much more embellished, wide façade with its mock battlements.

 _They must've built different styles on top of each other over the centuries,_ thought Fiona in wonder.

"When did you renovate this façade?" she asked out loud.

"Ah, they did say you were very much like your father when it came to history." His eyes twinkled. "When do you think?"

Fiona's brain immediately flicked over into historian mode. "Uh…it looks like a revival style from the late 1800s. There are whimsical faerytale kind of turrets all over here, but behind them I can see some older and more practical ones that look like you could actually shoot arrows from them."

Legolas inclined his head. "You _are_ good." Fiona bit her lip and tried to stop the heat from rushing to her face. "Yes, we renovated in the late 19th century. Back in the day Mensa Rotunda would invite our Mortal business partners to meet with us here on occasion, and keeping up the appearance of being toffy-nosed and loaded sometimes meant copying architectural fashions."

"That's right," she muttered. "I keep forgetting how old Mensa Rotunda is." She shook her head. "Just…how much did it cost to re-do the entire front of the castle?"

"Well…a lot, let's put it that way. We didn't tear anything down, though – what we did was just build more in front of our Renaissance façade. And that Renaissance one was built in front of the medieval stuff. And there are older things – much older – that are tucked away behind."

Fiona was stuffing her twitching fingers into the pockets of her coat (which was still missing a button) to stop herself from gripping onto the front of Legolas' shirt and demanding a tour, now. "Lindir told me that this place is protected from Mortals. So how did you end up inviting people to stay?"

"Oh, that? Well, that was a long time ago. Elrond began tightening security just after the Second World War, thanks to rapidly-advancing technology that could be used to pry. Slowly we began using our other estates to meet with people. Our other holdings are just as impressive, and don't have anything resembling Elven craft about them. One of the great bonuses," he added, hefting his bag of dead birds, "is that I can hunt without being seen and poked at by nosey businessmen and lords and journalists. We are free to do as we wish in our own little bubble."

"Including walking around in Elvish cosplay?"

"Of course." He grinned and tugged at his tunic. "It's more comfortable than jeans. But to answer your question, we held our meetings here for a long time simply because it was safe to do so. During some eras it was easier and aroused a lot less suspicion to just invite guests right into your home."

"I see."

"But even in the period following the war we began to see how it might be a problem. Cameras could be used to take pictures of the interior of the castle, and a guest who wandered too far into the maze of chambers, each older than the last, might be tempted to take photos of things they shouldn't. And filming techniques were going to become more subtle with each passing decade. All of us could see smart phones happening before they were even invented. It was a dangerous time."

"So you guys decided to shut up shop and do things differently?"

Legolas shrugged. "Basically. Elrond used his natural abilities to put a sort of cloak over the castle and lands surrounding it. The land of Lindon has been so long dwelt in by Elves – all the way back to the First Age, when the land was known as Ossiriand – that it already had its own form of protection over it. So it was only a matter of tweaking for Elrond to build upon what was already there. Only extraordinarily perceptive Mortals can see through it. And it's deceptive enough that anyone who does see it and wants to have a look just won't get any closer, no matter how much they walk or drive around."

"I like that Elf's style."

"I'm sure Elrond will be vastly happy to hear that you like his style," said Legolas. He glanced in her direction. "This is going to be your home for a while. Would you like to open the doors?"

Fiona didn't need to be asked twice. Eagerly, she stepped forward, and with a deep breath, laid her hands upon the old, darkened wood.

A breath, a bare whisper, reached her ears. She stared. It was coming from the wood itself. A voice. Her eyes flickered over to Legolas and she hesitated, hands still on the door.

"Don't worry." Legolas' voice was encouraging. "Just push them a bit and they will let you in."

 _Talking_ _doors._ More insanity. _Well, there are vampires who wield guns and Elves who run corporations. Talking doors are fine with me._ Fiona pushed and despite their apparent heaviness, the doors swung open with barely any resistance upon a scene that made her stop still in the doorway.

"Whoa."

The entrance hall didn't disappoint. Tall columns flew up into vaulted ceilings, rich embroidery carpeted the floor; there were light fixtures supported by delicate stems rising like vines peering shyly around the columns; a long rug that ran all the way from the doors through an arch into a wide expanse beyond which was probably the main hall.

Fiona stepped into the room, for a moment forgetting that Legolas was there. A well-kept fireplace with strange carvings and leaf designs over the mantelpiece was surrounded by sumptuous furniture – a lounging couch and some arm chairs, all covered with brocade, dark green and deep red. Right now the fire wasn't lit, but she closed her eyes and imagined quiet chatter and laughter and memories echoing down the centuries in the dark of winter.

Renovated or not, there were things in here hundreds of years old.

"What do you think?" piped up Legolas at her elbow, breaking the spell. Blasphemously, he swung his brace of pheasants to the other shoulder.

"It's…" She trailed off. Just this one room in the whole of the house defied description. There was so much history in here. There was the Victorian faerytale idealisation in the carvings on the columns; Renaissance frivolity in the paintings of wealthy people partying it up like it was 1534 in pointed bodices and striped hats with feathers; a hint of medieval austerity in the large arched doorway on the other side, leading into the vast unknown of the house of New Imladris beyond.

If she were locked in here for the rest of her life she probably wouldn't care.

"Question," she said, deciding that she could happily drape herself over one of these priceless couches and hug the vases later. "Have I lost the rest of my marbles, or were those doors actually talking to me?"

"They were recognising you," answered Legolas, as though it were the most normal thing. "These doors are a remnant of Old Imladris."

She must have been gaping at him, because he smiled before explaining. "There was a tree that grew in the valley of Imladris that had been there long before Elrond and his people had even begun to build the Last Homely House. Easily the oldest tree in the valley. But eventually its strength failed and the Elves felt it was easier to put it out of its misery before it died a long and slow death. Trees feel the pain of dying."

"You mean they chopped it up?"

"Yes, and Erestor tells me it was a sad thing. But they used the wood for all sorts of things, including those doors." He laid a hand fondly on the door's edge. "They are a remnant of old Imladris, hard and strong despite the thousands of years that lie between then and now. The earth has its own magic that keeps things alive and hardy."

"I'm glad Lindir wasn't here to hear you use the word 'magic'," Fiona said dryly.

"That's only because we have our own, much nicer word for it in Elvish. But it's a secret," he added dramatically. He adjusted the load on his shoulder. "Now, regrettably, I have to depart for the kitchen with my pheasants. But I'll inform Alun that you're here and he can go get your grandfather off the phone."

Fiona felt herself frowning. "Grandfather?"

"Master Elrond," Legolas clarified. "To Aragorn and Arwen's children, he has always been known as _daeradar_. Even the ones who didn't particularly care for speaking Elvish called him that."

Fiona hardly heard his words. _Grandfather._

The last grandfather she'd known was William Glynn. The one whose legendary stubbornness led to his falling out with Elrond. The one who prevented nearly two generations of King's Heirs from knowing that they had Elvish blood in their veins.

It had taken, as she found out the other night, her mother Miriam's own skills in piecing history together to find them.

It slowly dawned on her that there was no telling what Elrond might think of her being here. He'd never once reached out. Not to her. Not until he needed to find the _palantír_. What if she wasn't really here to find her family? What if he didn't like her?

What if there were some wounds that were past all healing?

Slowly, she turned around to face Legolas. "I don't know if I can do this."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Fiona stuffed her hands once again into her coat to still them. Her heart had quickened its pace. "I mean that I don't know Elrond, and he doesn't know me. Whatever happened between him and Grandpa had to have been pretty big for them to cut all contact with each other. So does that mean that…I don't know." She threw a hand up in frustration before it found her pocket again. "I'm having trouble expressing myself here."

"You're concerned that he will hold a grudge against you for the sins of your forebears?" Legolas asked gently.

Fiona nodded miserably. "I probably should've thought about it before accepting the invitation."

"Ah. And there you have your answer already." He surprised her with his next move. In a mere step he was standing right over her. A callused hand tilted her chin upwards, forcing her to look up at him. His light touch would have sent shivers down her spine had she not been full of self-doubt. "The word 'invitation' implies that you were actually, well, _invited_ , yes? Which means that Elrond wants you to be here, right?"

"I—"

" _Ipso facto_ , doesn't that mean he really wants to meet you? If I had a grudge against someone I certainly wouldn't be asking them to come and stay with me in my fabulous mansion for two weeks."

"You're not Elrond," she pointed out.

"And you don't know him, as you said," Legolas countered. His thumb was stroking, his voice comforting. "And perhaps you don't know me, either, but would you trust me if I told you it was going to be alright?"

Fiona hesitated a moment, but nodded.

"You have no reason to agree," said Legolas teasingly in response. "For all you know, I might be a massive arsehole."

"That's my line!" Fiona objected. "And…the way you talk, I feel like you could say almost anything to me and I'd agree. You and Lindir and Glorfindel, especially. You're just such a cheerful bunch."

"You flatter us all. Now, wait here, and I will get Alun for you."

His smile was infectious, and it darkened just a little as he leaned forward. Much closer. Close enough that his golden hair might have gotten caught in her coat buttons. She could feel his breath warm against her neck and his fingers trailing to where it met her collarbone, exposed despite the scarf.

Fiona's breath hitched.

"You smell nice, Fiona Lockwood," he murmured. "I think we're going to be good friends."

In an instant he was headed through an arched doorway with his pheasants, whistling a rather more upbeat version of _The Misty Mountains Cold_ than she remembered from the _Hobbit_ films.

She was alone in the huge entrance hall of the house of New Imladris.

"Did Legolas of the Fellowship just _flirt_ with me?" Fiona muttered out loud, still feeling the tingling of her skin where his fingers had been.

"Yes, in all likelihood," said a familiar voice behind her, making her jump. She didn't need to see her face to know it had flushed bright red in response to Lindir's usual friendliness. "Legolas will flirt with nearly anybody. Did he make you uncomfortable at all? You may tell him to stop and he will certainly respect your wishes."

Her face was probably turning red again. "No, it's okay – I mean, I don't – that is—"

Lindir's smile widened as he wheeled his own luggage and her broken duffel bag past her. "Fangirl. Did he say where he was going?"

"Uh…Alun, then kitchens with his birds."

"Of course. Will you allow me to take your belongings to your room? I promise you will not find me rifling through your underthings this time. If they don't fling themselves out of your bag at me, that is."

"Is it just your goal in life to embarrass me today, or what?" demanded Fiona in frustration. "Yes, please, dump it somewhere I can find it and stay out of my undies." She sounded harsher than she meant to, and bit her lip in lieu of an apology.

Lindir didn't seem to take it personally. "Your will, King's Daughter." He disappeared through the yawning arch before her. Fiona hesitated long enough for him to be up the staircase to the next floor, then followed.

The main hall was another wonderful study in history, this time from a more Tudor-esque era, with quirky Elven touches in the ivy leaves that curled around columns and up arches and over wooden panelling.

Was every room going to be like that? she wondered. As Legolas had told her, each part of the castle was older than the last. If she wandered far enough, she might fall through time and be lost in an endless maze of Elven rooms.

The idea wasn't entirely unappealing.

The sound of a door creaking open at the end of the room drew her attention. It swung open to reveal a young man – decidedly lacking in pointed ears – who was speaking animatedly down his phone. Some of the conversation carried to where Fiona was standing.

"No, that is certainly not what I said," he was saying in a clear Welsh accent. "If you continue to indiscriminately fire employees without consulting me then I'm afraid it is you who will be looking for alternative employment. And why, yes, you do, in fact, run a charity."

 _I'm going to guess that this is Alun_ , Fiona thought. He was pretty much how she'd imagined him after hearing his voice on the phone the other day – clean-cut and capable, moving with an energetic efficiency.

She suddenly felt a surge of gratitude at the sight of someone roughly in her age group – or at least in the same decade, anyway – and who wasn't an Elf. Just when she'd been getting used to the feeling of being impossibly young and out of her depth.

"Oh, that's your opinion?" Alun was saying. "Well, then, I have no choice but to declare you unfit to hold this position any longer."

A pause.

"My arse, as you so refreshingly refer to it, is doing just fine without the insertion of a telegraph pole."

Looking bored, he hung up and turned a smile to Fiona. He had striking eyes and dark hair – though Fiona could see the red undertones that marked them both members of the Glynn side of the family.

"Fiona! Alun Glynn. We spoke over the phone."

"Yeah, I remember," answered Fiona, shaking his hand and simultaneously shaking off her amazement at how calm this distant cousin of hers seemed to be after so casually firing someone.

He was already pulling away as he spoke.

"I'm afraid I won't be able to stop and chat – I'm needed in Cardiff this afternoon," he explained regretfully. "If you head through that door to your right you'll find the library, and there's an office down the back. I don't think he'll be there, though."

It took Fiona a moment to realise he was talking about Elrond. "Oh! Um, okay. Why isn't he going to be there?"

Alun opened his mouth to answer, and stopped. Just for the space of a breath – and just long enough for a horrible, distant roar to rend the air. It bounced off the high, embellished ceiling that arched over the room, and echoed down far-off halls. It was followed by a crash and a few colourful curses. Some of them were even in English.

Alun grimaced. "Uh, _that_. That is why he won't be there."

* * *

A/N: My sincerest apologies for the gap between updates! I had this chapter all ready to go but between going out a lot and only having internet access on my phone it's been really hard to find the time to upload. My new housemate only just gave me the WiFi password the other day. :P

Please keep your feedback coming. I love to hear all of your concrit and comments!


	12. Chapter 12

**Anonymous review replies**

Vanime: Maybe and maybe not! But we're finally meeting a particular someone in this chapter – after some pretty long and drawn out proceedings. :P Thank you for reviewing.

CodenameAgentC: Aww, and thank _you_ for being awesome too! You're one of my most regular reviewers. :D That is a lot of Cs, but worth it. I could do with some talking doors at my place, too. When I get some installed, I'll make sure they don't let in stray sales people. Who are you going to get your talking doors to kick out? There _is_ quite an age gap happening there, admittedly – Legolas is just a bit of a flirt and he does like the attention. Thankfully he doesn't look his age. That would be very unromantic. Thanks for reviewing, as usual!

Guest: I wish I could answer that without giving everything away, so all I'll say is that you'll have to keep hanging around and reading to find out! Thanks for reviewing. :D

Guest: Update is here! I hope Fiona and Elrond's meeting won't disappoint. :)

* * *

CHAPTER TWELVE

It turned out that there was an Elvish Mrs Rochester howling somewhere in the castle. Or, at least, that was how Fiona interpreted the explanation Alun gave her.

"Every castle has its mad resident, right?" asked Alun when he'd finished, speaking without looking at Fiona as he texted away. Fiona, on her part, was too tired and confused to feel offended. Her cousin clearly had his hands full.

"I wouldn't know," she said dryly. "I've never lived in a castle before."

"Oops, of course you haven't. Well, now you know." He paused his messaging for a moment and frowned. "Forgive me, I probably shouldn't call him mad. He isn't. Not really. Just…angry and traumatised."

"I'm just glad that it wasn't Elrond making all that noise," muttered Fiona, glancing around her as though she could still hear the echoes. That screaming had been full of rage, full of pain. She wasn't sure how she would have reacted if it had been her grandfather.

She trailed after Alun until they reached the reception room, whereupon her clean-cut cousin turned around and shook her hand once again with a smile. "A pleasure to have met you. Promise you won't go racing down cliffs until I come back?"

"Promise. Once was enough." She tilted her head. "I hope I'm not being rude, but I'm really curious. Who's the angry and traumatised Elf?"

"Well, don't tell _him_ that's what I called him. He's been known by quite a few names during his long life, but the one that's been with him the longest is Daeron."

That was that. Fiona watched Alun leave, a million questions spinning in her head, none of which were going to be answered any time soon by the looks of things. She shook her head. _Man. Daeron? As in, First Age minstrel Daeron? Who kind of ran off and disappeared when he thought Lúthien was dead?_

 _How's he going to take to me being here?_

OoO

The others arrived in dribs and drabs over the course of the evening.

Glorfindel was first, swaggering through the door and loudly complaining that he'd seen Legolas and that Greenwood bastard wasn't going to be cooking the pheasant tonight.

"And after I went to the trouble of stealing all that silverware," he complained, several sharp knives from the restaurant appearing in his waving fists. He shot a look at the old Elven doors behind him. "Stop hissing at me!" he ordered.

Fiona was sure he was only half-joking.

Erestor and Narweth were next a while later. Narweth swung the door open with one hand and swept past Fiona, who didn't miss the air of recent argument that clung heavily to the two Elves as they did their level best to ignore each other. Glorfindel, on the other hand, already miserable at the prospects of having to rummage through the freezer and having unglamorous chicken nuggets for dinner, didn't seem to notice anything – or, if he did, he was keeping quiet about it.

 _I really need to find out about those two eventually,_ Fiona noted mentally, watching as Erestor stalked away to the left and Narweth continued purposefully straight ahead, red hair swinging angrily in its long ponytail. _It's driving me nuts._

For her part, Fiona was left to her own devices for a while – which, she realised, was just what she needed. Being in constant company for the last few days was beginning to wear her stretched resources thin.

But she was not left wholly alone. As the sky darkened and lights began subtly flickering to life around the castle, Fiona noticed that there was always someone strolling past every once in a while as if to check on her. She wondered with no little suspicion whether it had something to do with keeping her and Daeron out of each other's way and felt rather grateful that someone had thought of it. _I really don't want_ him _yelling at me._

She'd curled up on one of the gorgeous reception room couches that she'd been admiring before and had been going through her photos of the Welsh countryside. So far, she'd taken a few blurry shots of some ruins that they'd passed, and there was one sad attempt at a surreptitious photo of Glorfindel illustrating a point by waving an animated arm around in the car. (His profile had looked rather too beautiful for Fiona to miss the opportunity to take a picture. He'd noticed her at the last minute and pulled a silly face.)

She glanced up with mild curiosity as the sound of footsteps reached her.

 _Speak of the devil._ The sound was coming from the mighty golden warrior of Gondolin himself as he wandered down the hall. Again. He caught her eye, opened his mouth, then shut it again as if with a great effort of will before melting back into the main hall.

"Hey! What was that?" laughed Fiona, puzzled.

Glorfindel appeared a moment later, shuffling backwards. "Lindir has given me strict instructions not to talk to you just this minute," he said, looking none too happy about it. "But I'm supposed to keep an eye on you anyway in case you need something. _Do_ you need anything?" he added, sounding hopeful. "A decent cuppa? I could do with some tea myself."

"No, I'm okay for now. But thanks."

The answer seemed to disappoint the golden Elf but he sighed and made a dramatic gesture of farewell before vanishing.

 _Poor thing_ , thought Fiona. _Why did Lindir go and tell him not to talk to me?_

The answer came to her in a heartbeat: Because, in his usual understated way, Lindir was making sure she was getting what she needed – which was to not be pestered for a while.

 _But…why? Is he, like, my official Elven guardian now or something?_ The idea of an Elf for a protector was a nice one, especially since she might well have a price on her head now. Those vampires wouldn't have been too happy about being shot at. And whether she liked it or not, she suspected that she had been tied up in the whole thing just from being seen with the Elves.

It wasn't just that, though. By travelling with her, by doing little things like offering a scarf or patiently answering her thousand questions, she felt like Lindir was offering more than just plain hospitality. He genuinely wanted to be friends.

 _He doesn't have a reason to be that kind. I never even knew he existed before now, and he can't know me that well. And at the same time, he just seems to know what I need when I need it. Which makes me feel kind of guilty. I'm really not used to being the centre of anyone's attention, much less an immortal Elf's._

Stretching, she rose to her feet, and found herself wondering whether she should go and thank him. She cringed at the idea. Maybe not just yet. What on earth was she meant to say? She'd spent a lot of time gushing already.

Instead, she found herself drifting in the direction of the library. Some part of her was curious as to whether Elrond was there, and another part really just wanted to see what an Elvish library looked like.

She passed under the high, embellished ceiling of the main hall and headed through an open door she found to the right.

The sight did not disappoint. Though by now it was dark outside, the library was inconspicuously lit and sufficiently old-looking.

Fiona steadfastly ignored the urge to rifle through ledges that were so stuffed with old books that some of them looked like they were about to pop off their shelves. Temptation notwithstanding, she meandered about in an attempt to find the room that Alun had spoken about, making a mental note to come back and explore later.

She was hit with the impulse to Snapchat Mackenzie with a picture of the library and a _Beauty and the Beast_ reference, but a thought gave her pause. After the afternoon's events, she wasn't so sure that there weren't people out there who could use photos of the Elven sanctuary for not-so-great purposes.

It frustrated her a little, but she decided that it might be safer not to send anything just yet.

Another dark wooden door stood open, and she tentatively crept into what was one of the most cluttered rooms she'd ever seen.

After this, her Victorian share-house at home was going to look tidy.

Her inner neat freak twitched.

There were stacks of papers everywhere. Papers that looked like they could have been printed yesterday, and rolls of parchment that had probably seen the first careful strokes of dark ink on their surfaces centuries ago. Books lying open, a plate that was growing an interesting science experiment on it.

And coffee cups. Lots of coffee cups.

But no Elf-lord.

 _What do I do now?_ she wondered in the silence of the room. Glancing around, she found some free space on a chair with vintage upholstery and sat down. The mugs seemed ubiquitous and randomly-placed – there was one on a bookshelf behind the desk, and one sitting all the way on top of a grandfather clock whose pendulum swung ponderously behind its glass case. She couldn't imagine Elrond being this messy. Not that she actually knew anything much about him, but messy didn't seem to fit with her mental image of the wise Half-Elven lord of Rivendell.

Growing restless, she stood up and gave in to her curiosity. There were things here that she was just itching to have explained. How old was this part of the house? What was the story behind the grandfather clock? She peered closely at it. There were what looked like three bullet holes that went straight through the wood.

Fiona idly picked up a stray piece of paper and frowned. The markings were not words. She tried another piece of paper, seeing the same markings, then started leafing through a whole stack. None of them had words on them. It was all musical notation, black marks flowing and leaping off the page frenetically.

Weirdly, the paper itself seemed to nearly be buzzing with energy.

"Aragorn used to walk into my office uninvited also," observed a voice dryly behind her.

Fiona jumped and the music went fluttering to the floor. That voice – both foreign and familiar – could have stopped her heart.

A broad-shouldered figure swept past her and bent down, gently retrieving the papers.

"You must excuse the state of the place," he continued in measured tones, probably unaware of Fiona's sudden stillness. Turning the manuscripts over in his hands, he set them down neatly on top of the others. He peered into a nearby mug and grimaced. "There appear to be a few things growing in here. I have been sharing my office space with a caffeinated musician of late and it looks as though keeping things clean was not his priority."

He turned to face her, and Fiona couldn't reply. She was seeing the face of her grandfather for the very first time.

Tolkien's words about Elrond Peredhel looking neither young nor old sprang vividly to mind. Brown hair kept in a tail, the faintest of lines about his eyes that the other Elves she'd seen didn't have. He had a face that managed to look both stern and kind at the same time.

And…he had the eyebrows. As in, the Matrix eyebrows. The Elrond-from-the-movie Eyebrows of Doom.

He moved around the desk and held out a hand. "Please, sit."

 _Mr Anderson_ , she added mentally in an ominous voice, then stifled a giggle.

Which she did none too well, judging by the funny look Elrond gave her, but he otherwise said nothing as he waited for her to sink into the chair opposite him at the desk. She felt slightly intimidated as she watched Elrond take his own seat, not even bothering to remove his grey coat. He was a tall, formidable presence.

She reined in her impulse to fidget as they gazed levelly at one another. His brown eyes betrayed none of his thoughts as one moment, then another, passed in silence.

Fiona cleared her throat. "I like your library. I haven't had a good look yet but it's really nice from what I've seen of it."

"Yes, I rather like my library too." Elrond's voice – her grandfather's voice – had a refined, weighty quality to it. As though every word were something of importance. It was the sort of voice you sat up and listened to, Fiona thought. "This is quite a small collection, however. In the older part of the house we have another one with a large quantity of manuscripts preserved from the original Imladris, though I'm afraid it may be less well-kept."

"I'd like to see it some time, if that's allowed."

"Allowed?" Elrond's eyebrows shot up in what Fiona assumed was amusement.

"Well, I – I dunno, I just assumed that there'd be out-of-bounds areas or something. Like the west wing."

"I should like to reassure you now that there is no magical rose encased in glass in our west wing," said Elrond. "But what I would strongly advise against is wandering past the main hall unaccompanied at night. It may be dangerous."

A shiver shot its way down Fiona's spine, tinged – to her surprise – with intrigue. _There it is again. Feeling almost more excited than scared._

"Why?" she asked tentatively. "Are there ghosts down there?"

"Possibly," Elrond said. "But mostly, it is dark at night because there is little in the way of electricity, and if you do not know the layout it is easy to get lost."

"Oh."

"If you inform myself or one of my motley crew of Elves, however, someone will be happy to accompany you should you wish to explore."

"Really?" Fiona breathed. "I kind of do want to explore at some point."

"That is well. Indeed, I found myself counting on your reported curiosity – I assume that is what brought you here in the first place, despite the haphazard way in which you found things out."

Elrond paused for a moment, his forehead furrowing as his thick eyebrows drew together. The conversation had already progressed through several levels of weird and Fiona found herself consciously uncrossing her legs and putting her feet flat on the floor to keep grounded. She had no idea what he was getting at.

 _Not that I have any idea what any of these Elves are getting at half the time, anyway,_ she thought, mentally sighing.

"I must tell you," Elrond said gravely, jolting Fiona out of her thoughts, "your reason for being here is not merely to improve your skills as a historian. I myself am an avid student of history, as is your father – as was your mother. It runs in our blood, undoubtedly. I wished to provide an opportunity for you to gain some practical experience.

"But…" He paused, clearly searching for the right words. "As important as I believe your education and prospects in life are, these are but small matters. There is something else."

"My other grandfather," said Fiona flatly.

"Reconciliation," Elrond gently amended. He folded his hands before him. When his eyes met hers, their depths held a regret that made Fiona's heart inexplicably ache. "To be clear, no blame for what passed between William and I rests with you. If anything, I blame myself. You know that he came to be in my care when he was still young?"

Fiona nodded.

"That was only after I learned of the abuse he suffered at the hands of his step-father." There was a hint of anger in his tone. He took a deep breath and when he spoke next, he was calmer, if sadder. "Life among Men has taught me many things, one of which is that mortality does something to human minds. They are driven to life and brilliance and darkness and madness by turns. Their minds are more fragile and more beautiful than those of the Eldar in many ways. Mortal parents are given the gift and curse of creating a map of life and the world for their children. Those who are not so good at being parents spin dark paths that their descendants often blindly wander in misery unless they know where to find the truth. The trauma of his upbringing followed William and troubled him all his years, and I…" Elrond stopped. "I could not mend him."

"I knew something had to have happened to Grandpa," Fiona said quietly. "He wouldn't talk about it. My mum said he would just have these outbursts of rage and lose himself completely. And he got hospitalised for mental health stuff a few times. But – why is that your fault?"

"Because healing is my gift, and if I cannot use that gift, I have failed utterly." He spoke in tones as calm as a windless evening. "Unfortunately, there is another in my care whose mind has not been entirely whole for many a long year and who one day found a small child wandering about the halls. Dark of hair and eye was she, and her appearance called forth a memory almost lost to him. Miriam was her name, not Lúthien, but that meant nothing to Daeron at the time."

"Mum," Fiona breathed. Her heart stirred with horror. "What did Daeron do to my mum?"

"Nothing intentionally harmful. He simply took her deep into the old part of the forest down in the valley to listen to his music, because she liked it and he needed his inspiration. William, however, had no idea where she had disappeared to. None of us did. She had vanished, and her father was frantic. We searched for hours, until Lindir caught the faintest strain of flute music on the wind. He has the best hearing of all of us, and, well, musicians tend to find one another in a strange way. He and Erestor went to retrieve the child, William insisting on going too. When he found his little girl with a strange man – an Elf – in such an isolated place, memories of old horrors endured in isolation with an older man came flooding back."

Fiona shuddered.

"He blamed me, and I cannot say that he was wrong to do so. Daeron would never have hurt your mother, but it was a terrible oversight on my part to allow her to wander about with him in the vicinity. Your grandfather took Miriam and swore that never again would he return to New Imladris and the family that betrayed him." Elrond sighed. He rubbed his eyes, just a hint of exhaustion beginning to show. "If there was one thing in life that William exercised any consistency in, it was that promise."

Fiona felt a surge of irritation. _And he was pretty consistent with neglecting the tiny detail that I'm descended from Lúthien and Elrond and Aragorn. My parents also did a good job of forgetting it, apparently. And I only met Lindir by chance. No one could be bothered telling me anything for twenty-two years. Not until they felt like it._ "Why am I just finding this out now?" She couldn't hide the note of annoyance in her voice. "I would have appreciated it if someone had let me know about all this years ago so I could get used to it instead of just dumping it on me out of the blue."

"I wanted to, believe me. Your mother herself was unsure what she would find when she discovered us, and when she died your father did not want to be reminded of her or her otherworldly family. Not until the last few months at least, when he began to realise that we could be of help. I suppose we had to respect their wishes. Until you were old enough – past old enough – to know of our existence. To know of whose line you are descended. You deserved to know," he added emphatically, indicating some disagreement with the way her parents had done things.

A few more moments of silence passed. Elrond seemed to be gauging her reaction, cautiously sitting and watching while Fiona let it all sink in. It explained something, she grudgingly admitted. Why neither of her parents told her. Why Grandpa had remained tight-lipped about his upbringing all the time that she had known him. Why no one had reached out to her until now.

Not that it made her feel any less betrayed. _They still think I'm a kid._

"Um…thanks for telling me," was what she managed to say. She had the feeling that relying on the Elvish encouragement of honesty to hold up beneath her anger wasn't a good idea. "But I'm not sure what you want me to do from here."

Elrond's gaze met hers across the desk, the soft golden light of the wall fixtures making his serious face look even more so. "Anything you wish. No contract binds you to be here or to have us in your lives, as I am sure Lindir would have told you. Stay for as long as you want, and be involved as much or as little as you wish in our quest to find the lost seeing-stone. You may browse through our libraries, and as I have said, you may visit the older parts of the house with a guide. I am happy to assist you in whatever way you wish with any history assignments you may have. The money that Alun paid into your account will continue to arrive every month regardless of what you decide next – as my direct descendant, you are entitled to have a share in the profits of Mensa Rotunda. What you wish to do is entirely up to you."

 _No. He doesn't think I'm a kid_ , she realised belatedly. He was allowing her the complete freedom of choice. She was faced with the weight of decisions that she'd never had to make before.

"What I wish to do is…" She trailed off cautiously. _What_ do _I want?_ "Probably to go to bed and sleep this all off. Can I do that?"

To her immense surprise, Elrond's serious expression gave way to a chuckle. "Yes, I suppose you can. Your room will have been prepared this morning by our housekeeper, with any luck."

That gave Fiona pause. "You guys have a housekeeper? How does that fit in with the whole keeping-Mortals-out-of-your-business thing?"

"We employ Mortals all the time," answered Elrond. "The village of Erynlad lies not far from here and it is a place where Elves and Mortals have lived side by side from time immemorial. The people are mostly of Númenorean descent. Given that some of them still live a little longer than the average Mortal, they too risk coming under scrutiny, so we offer them our protection year after year."

"Right. So you basically keep them under that magic cloak thing you've got over the valley."

Elrond actually winced. "Please do not use that word in front of Lindir."

"What, magic?" asked Fiona. "He does seem kind of touchy about it."

"In any case, we are happy to allow the people from the village into the house of New Imladris and employ them. Our small team consists of housekeeping and grounds maintenance, both of which are headed by Gareth's wife. They come and go throughout the week, so while you are here you may see them wandering about."

Gareth's wife had to have been a force to contend with. What Fiona had seen of the house was immaculately kept, and the grounds at the front like something out of a nature photoshoot.

Elrond then rose, and Fiona remembered that she'd basically told him she was going to bed, so she hastily got to her feet too. She looked at him awkwardly. His coat was long and in the soft library light it could have been an Elven robe.

It was too surreal.

"Good night, I guess," Fiona said, mustering a smile.

She was half-expecting a grave incline of the head and some Tolkienesque blessing about the stars shining on the night of their meeting, but instead Elrond reached across the desk and took one of her hands in his large one, regarding her solemnly over the top of them. It was an intimidating gesture, but his hands were big and warm and made Fiona feel…safe, somehow.

She would be going to bed happy.

"Good night," Elrond responded, the warmth of his hands somehow seeming to suffuse his voice. "Granddaughter."

* * *

 ** _A/N:_** _Wow, you guys are awesome! Thanks for sticking with this story. Your lovely comments always inspire me to write more, so please keep the feedback coming._

 _Also, Elrond. Finally. :P_


	13. Chapter 13

**Anonymous review replies**

Codename Agent C: That's okay! I'm so grateful when I get reviews, so it's least I can do to reply whenever someone sends me one. :D Yeah, a three-thousand-year-old Elf whose appearance matched their age would probably look like a walking walnut. Nice, that's exactly where a set of talking doors should be installed. Stay tuned and all will be revealed concerning Daeron!

Vanime: I'm so glad Elrond turned out well! He's a tricky character to write. I've always considered brown hair to fall into the 'dark' category. There's a reason Daeron's still hanging around - but you'll have to keep reading to find out why. Yes, I'm mean. :P Thank you for reviewing!

Silk Leaf: Hahaha! Poor Glorfindel – I imagine it would be too quiet in Mandos for him too. The Elves are very happy that you like reading about them (not one of them is above a bit of flattery). We'll meet Daeron at some point, I'm sure. Thank you for your review. :D

* * *

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A great grey fog blanketed the valley the next morning, and although the rest of Fiona was warm beneath the sheets, her nose was already starting to freeze.

Her half-shut eyes flickered over to the fireplace that sat yawning at her from the wall of her room. Fireplaces were really cool to look at, and it was very Elvish and all, but as far as convenience went they were a pain in the arse. She'd have to get out of bed, stuff around with some matches with cold fingers, and try to miraculously get a fire going.

She eyed the stack of wood dubiously. _You know, I don't know much about lighting fires, but that wood looks damp. And damp wood don't light so well._

 _Maybe I should have asked Legolas for more help when I'd had the chance._

Fiona had almost literally bumped into the Greenwood Elf on her way to bed the night before. Tripping over in his presence seemed to be a thing she did, and she had the distinct impression that he rather enjoyed it.

"Where are you off to, King's Heir?" he'd said when Fiona had finished jumping ten feet in the air.

"Bed," she had replied, putting on as nonchalant a voice as possible. The last time she'd seen him, his lips had nearly been against her neck. That memory sent a few shivers down her spine, and it wasn't completely unpleasant.

"Without dinner?" Legolas looked horrified. "But we have chicken nuggets! And chips!"

"I love chicken nuggets," Fiona reassured him, unable to stop herself from grinning. "But I'm also tired, and I've just met my grandfather, and I need to sleep."

Legolas' expression immediately sobered. "I see. How was your meeting? I am aware that the prospect troubled you earlier."

"It did, but probably unnecessarily so. He was very kind, if slightly intimidating. He told me a lot of things and to process it all I need sleep. Sleep is my solution to everything."

"Mine also," Legolas agreed. "I haven't had the experience of Mortal sleep before, but ours is quite restful. What do you Mortals do behind those closed lids of yours?"

"Uh, good question." Fiona absently brushed a stray curl from her face. It occurred to her that she'd gone before the Master of Imladris with a bush for hair. "We dream. It's not like yours, where you meaningfully reminisce about the past. Our brains make up all sorts of crap. Like, you'll randomly find yourself making speeches naked, or your teeth will suddenly fall out. Or sometimes you'll have these really epic ones that seem to run on for hours but you won't remember a thing when you wake up." She refrained from mentioning the other kind of embarrassing dream that Mortal minds liked generating, especially about people they knew in waking life.

"That does indeed sound rather different," mused Legolas as they trailed together up the stairs that circled the main hall. "I recall Aragorn telling me something similar. Now, as you can probably tell, it gets cold here and the mornings can be pure hell to wake up to. In this sort of weather, and all the way out here, the gas and electricity sporadically turn themselves on and off, so we have to rely on more traditional ways of keeping warm sometimes."

"You mean…"

Legolas swung open the door to her room, which she hadn't actually seen yet, and flicked on the light switch. A double bed with a pretty baroque design swirling on the bed spread awaited her, and her duffel was set neatly on the floor next to it. The window was a large one, veiled behind deep burgundy curtains. To Fiona's delight, a fireplace sat across from the bed, with ivy leaves carved out of the cream-coloured mantelpiece.

It didn't matter in that moment that she would likely find it impractical the next morning, or that her room would probably end up overheated. It didn't even matter that she'd already seen numerous fireplaces on this trip. It was a fireplace of real Elvish make.

Legolas boldly walked into her room and stopped in front of it, frowning at the mantelpiece. "Hang about – I don't think they've given you any matches."

"I can't light a fire without those, can I?" Fiona awkwardly edged her way through the door and came to a stop next to Legolas. "It's okay, I probably won't need to use it."

Legolas smiled. "You may want to, come morning. Let me go find those matches for you and then I'll let you sleep." He fairly bounced out of the room, leaving Fiona to pick up her duffel and start rummaging around for her pajamas. As tempting as it was to just flop into bed, she wanted to at least _try_ to be civilised.

After a few moments Legolas returned with the promised matches, producing a small box and sliding it across her mantelpiece. "There is a pile of wood just over here—" He gestured to a basket of dark logs. "—so now you should have all you need. And if you are missing something, you are _most_ welcome to come to my room."

He gave her such an over-exaggerated sultry look that Fiona burst out laughing, knowing that he didn't intend any serious innuendo. "I thought the books captured your character pretty well until actually meeting you."

"Glorfindel was opposed to leaving out some of the less savory Elvish songs I regaled the Fellowship with on our journey," said Legolas rakishly, pushing some long blond hair out of his face, "but although the Professor was amused by them, he was unsure that his audience at the time would have been as appreciative."

"We can sing a few of them for you later," offered Glorfindel's muffled voice as he sailed past, startling Fiona. "Just not in front of your grandfather."

...And that had been last night's episode. She didn't remember saying goodnight to Legolas, or even changing into her pajamas.

Fiona climbed out of bed, getting dressed and shivering as she did so. She came to stand in front of her fireplace when she'd finished. She briefly reconsidered her Snapchat policy, reasoning that a picture of a half-dark fireplace probably wouldn't be too incriminating should someone get their hands on it, and proceeded to send said picture to Mackenzie.

 _Fireplace be tryna get lit AF_ , Fiona captioned.

Pleased with her pun, she tossed her phone onto the bed and pulled her coat on. A flash of dark red in her periphery caught her attention, and she noticed Lindir's gift to her slung over her duffel on the floor. Was wearing scarves indoors weird? She picked it up, running her fingers over its luxuriant woollen fibres thoughtfully, before slinging it on and skipping out the door.

She came back a moment later after discovering that the house was still only dimly lit by the cold pre-dawn twilight, and that she couldn't find any light switches near the stairs. She retrieved her phone with a sigh and tried again.

For all Fiona's suspicions that Elves liked early rising, she couldn't hear the slightest stirring of activity this morning. The house was alive, somehow, but quiet and in deep sleep. If she stopped to listen, she'd probably hear the walls and hallways slowly drawing breath. There was something about old places. The longer they were around for, the more they seemed to gain a life of their own. It was one of the reasons she loved history so much.

 _Maybe that's what Lindir meant when he was talking about how the land protects them because they've lived in it literally for ages, or why Elrond's ancient battle figurines weave a quiet protection about their owner. They come to life._

Fiona paused a moment at the stairs and pulled a weird face. _I need to see those Elvish GI Joes to believe it. I can't imagine my stately grandfather mucking around with figurines, no matter what Lindir says._

With her phone torch, she made her way downstairs and into the main hall. The tall arched windows let in some dim light, sending long strips of grey-blue across the floor. It looked so different from yesterday, but no less beautiful.

Now…where was the dining area?

Fiona's footsteps were muffled by the carpet, and there was enough light now that she could see without her phone, so she turned it off. It seemed like some sort of blasphemy to be using it in a place like this anyway.

There was a line of electricity-generated light coming from an un-closed door and she headed in that direction. _Looks like at least one person is up._ She poked the door open.

Behind it was a dining room containing a small fridge in a corner and a single Elf with dark, wavy hair bound in a tail. Shorts and a t-shirt, as if he hadn't noticed how cold it was. He was chugging milk straight from the bottle with the fridge door wide open, and he didn't appear to care that she was gaping at him from the doorway.

He eventually wiped away a milk moustache, burped, and looked directly at her. "You're Fiona."

"Yes," she said slowly, unsure what to do next. "And you're…"

"Drinking milk." The Elf shoved the bottle back into the fridge and began rummaging through the leftovers that littered the shelves. He came up with a plate of something and jiggled it at her. "Lasagne?"

Fiona gave up. "Sure. Why not?"

She sat down and watched with curiosity as he spun around and tossed the plate into the microwave, idly running a hand back through his long hair as he waited.

"I am Daeron," he said, unprompted. The microwave _dinged_ behind him and he started scooping the reheated lasagne onto a second plate.

He didn't _look_ like he was insane. A little abrupt, a lot quirky, but not insane.

It wasn't quite what she'd expected. But then again, she was fast learning that with Elves, nothing was ever as she expected.

And she herself was beginning not to react to anything as she expected, either. Only three days ago, she was reeling with the discovery that Rivendell and Gondor and Rohan and all that were real places. Now she was having breakfast with a legendary minstrel and calmly pondering the state of his sanity.

She frowned in thought as she looked down at her hands, folded on the table.

And then jumped, startled, when Daeron slammed her plate down in front of her, followed by a richly aromatic coffee. It sloshed dangerously close to the lip of the mug.

"Th-thanks," she stammered out. "I don't really drink—"

"Today, you will," he answered gruffly. "Caffeine is necessary for a clear mind and creative spirit."

He glared at her, just daring her to contradict. Fiona held her hands up in a placating gesture and turned to the plate in front of her. Maybe lasagne had been an ambitious choice for breakfast, but oh well. She'd gone to bed last night without eating anything and her appetite was beginning to return.

They sat in silence for a bit, the only sound the clinking of cutlery, before the surly Elf spoke. "Don't talk much, do you?" He could have been talking to his plate.

"I could say the same thing about you," said Fiona without thinking. She pursed her lips as soon as the words were out. _Damn all this bloody Elvish honesty._

Daeron didn't seem to care. "Speech is a gift which when used sparingly might be useful on occasion. I see no point in wasting words."

"Good," said Fiona in the same flat tone, "because I don't like wasting mine."

This was the guy who had taken her mum into the woods to listen to his music because she had reminded him of a tiny Lúthien. Fiona wasn't sure what was in the lasagne today or whether she was really enjoying this blunt version of herself, but the slight hint of a smile on Daeron's face told her that at least he was.

"I thought Elves liked words," she said after a moment. "Making trees talk is kind of a good indication that your race likes…talking at stuff."

"I do like words. But words mean rather little, unless they be set to song. The tongue can lie. Music does not."

"I'm guessing you and Lindir would get along, then." Fiona recalled Lindir saying something about words and deception and Elves being dark or something uncharacteristically gloomy like that. Clearly Daeron was a fellow staunch upholder of the honesty rule.

"We do," came Lindir's voice out of nowhere, "despite his unparalleled – what do you Mortals call it? – resting bitch face."

Fiona resisted the urge to whip around in her chair. Since arriving in New Imladris she hadn't had a lot of contact with her companion. It was strange that she was finding herself getting that attached, she thought, even taking into account the fact that back in high school she'd been a bit of a Lindir fan and read some pretty cringey fanfic.

Completely unaware, of course, Lindir made his way around the table in jeans and a flannelette shirt that he'd rolled up to his elbows. His long hair was dishevelled and a bit was tucked behind a pointed ear as he turned and smiled at her. "Good morning, by the way. Lord Elrond tells me you met last night."

"Yeah, we did," answered Fiona around a mouthful of lasagne. "And it went a lot better than I was expecting."

"I'm glad to hear that, though I could have told you all would be well. After our adventures yesterday behind the wheel, I should think Elrond would be the less terrifying prospect."

Fiona didn't respond. Lindir was folding his arms and leaning against the cabinet with the toaster on it. "I could really do with a biscuit right now," he sighed.

"Too bad," said Daeron smugly. "I ate whatever was left in that tin of Danish things. I win."

"And yet, unluckily for you, I have these." Out of nowhere Lindir triumphantly brandished one of his seemingly endless packets of sweet biscuits. He swiped it out of reach of Daeron's fingers and held it out to Fiona, ignoring the other Elf's grunt of protest. "King's Daughter?"

Fiona blinked. Something about Lindir had changed a little. His attitude around her had always been relaxed – except when he had been interrogating the droopy-moustached vampire – but now there was a new calm to him. If New Imladris had the power to make _her_ feel her cares being lifted away, she had no doubt it probably did the same for the other Elves, whose problems had to have been bigger than hers.

The Elves began to trickle into breakfast in the same haphazard way they had arrived at the castle last night. Outside, the light began to change from grey and foggy to a wintry gold that lit up the dining room, giving Fiona's admiring eyes a chance to survey the beautiful dark table that the others were happily dumping their dishes all over.

Legolas bounded in and immediately launched into a retelling of some memory he'd been walking through last night, which appeared to involve an unfortunate incident with a moose. Erestor calmly sat down next to Daeron, and the two spoke with one another in Sindarin. Narweth gave Fiona a curt nod by way of good morning as she passed, which surprised her a little.

Elrond was last. Fiona watched him as he regally took his place at one end of the table, with Glorfindel at the other. He met her eyes and nodded in recognition but made no other move to speak to her.

She realised, with a pang of guilt, that he was keeping his distance because she had been keeping hers. _I guess I probably didn't come across as overly friendly last night_ , she thought. She did not want for Elrond to think she wasn't interested in being part of his family. It was just that she couldn't bring herself to be close to her grandfather yet – not when they'd only spent a grand total of half an hour in each other's company.

 _But we have to start somewhere._ Ignoring the protests that began crossing her mind, she stared for a hard moment at the untaken place next to Elrond and then moved to fill it, taking a few of Lindir's biscuits with her.

He smiled when she sat down, almost with relief, she thought. That hint of joy on his serious face was worth her now diminishing discomfort. "I hope you slept well last night. This castle is built of stone as old as the hills and can be quite cold during the winter months."

"It was fine! I was too excited to be sleeping in a castle to worry about the cold. And I had plenty of blankets thanks to Legolas."

"That is well." Elrond neatly spread some strawberry jam over his toast. Then paused. "Legolas was in your room last night?"

 _Oh, geez. Don't tell me he's going to get all prudish on me._ "Yeah…he walked me there because I had no idea where Lindir had put my bags, and then he went and got me some matches and stuff…" She trailed off when she realised Elrond's heavy eyebrow had lifted. "Oh. You're not actually being serious."

"No. That said, if Legolas does bother you – or anyone bothers you, for that matter – you need only tell me." His face darkened as his gaze slid across to the legendary Elf of the Fellowship, who happened to glance in their general direction at the same moment. The flow of the story he was regaling Glorfindel with was momentarily interrupted by Legolas' hurried attempt to look away.

 _Remind me never to get on my grandfather's bad side_ , Fiona thought as Elrond gave a surprisingly devious little smirk and turned back to his innocuous jam on toast.

"I think you enjoy intimidating people," she said lightly.

"Only when need be. I hope I did not intimidate you last night."

"Well…" He raised an eyebrow at her again and she relented. "Yeah. You did. But I don't think intentionally. Look, I'm sorry if I was kind of short with you last night. To say everything's new to me right now is kind of an understatement, and I don't always react all that well to new stuff. If it makes you feel better, though, I've made a decision."

"What decision have you made?"

"You told me last night that I could stay for as long as I wanted to, and be involved in your seeing-stone mission if I so chose." She took a deep breath. "To that end, I kind of got online last night and deferred my degree."

Elrond's toast paused on its way from his plate.

"Yeah. I was going to hang around for a week or two and then head back to Melbourne. And maybe I should, after being caught in a car chase with the Cullens back there." She shrugged beneath his intent gaze. "But I've been playing it safe for most of my life, and I've been worrying far too much about uni to really enjoy the last semester or so. I can always get right back into it halfway through the year. Or whenever."

"Does this mean," Elrond said, sitting back in his seat contemplatively, "that you plan on remaining with us?"

Fiona bit her lip. It hadn't occurred to her that maybe she was imposing. "Is that going to be an issue? Because I _can_ go – I'll just work at the Kalehouse until the next—"

Elrond's hand covered hers and she stopped abruptly. He was shaking his head and watching her with a solemn expression and eyes that smiled. "Far from being an issue, I would be honoured if you could stay with us for longer."

"Really?"

"Of course. In fact, there is something I would like to show you after breakfast."

"Please tell me it's stuff from old Middle-Earth."

Her grandfather laughed. "A small part of what we have, yes. Some of it is in one of the older libraries and, unless I am wrong, perhaps you would care to see it?"

Fiona was nodding vigorously, her doubts of a moment ago forgotten. "When do we go?"

"Ugh," Glorfindel groaned, apparently overhearing some of their conversation. "You're not going to drag the poor girl through the downstairs library, are you? It hasn't been dusted in two hundred years and there are probably skeletons of extinct Welsh dinosaurs lying around in it."

"Feel free to ignore the nonsense being spouted from that side of the table," Elrond said wryly, standing up. Fiona quickly followed suit. "Glorfindel only dislikes the place because an embarrassing misfortune befell him there once a long time ago."

"What kind of misfortune?"

"The kind where you take a nice young _elleth_ away from a party to a more romantic spot and find bloody Daeron hanging upside down like a bat from the ceiling because it gives him more song-writing perspective," answered Glorfindel, laughing even though he was doing his best to be annoyed.

Fiona grinned back. "Well, I'm pretty sure at least I'll like the place."

As they left the room, she couldn't help but notice Daeron watching her with a strange expression over his second cup of coffee. Maybe he had noticed that she'd only gotten through half of the one he'd made her. _Or maybe he's trying to decide what to make of me_ , she thought, which was the more likely explanation.

 _Honestly, the feeling's mutual._

* * *

 _ **A/N:** __My apologies for not updating as quickly as I would have liked! I really wish I could take off work just to sit around on my futon with a hot chocolate and a blanket and write fanfiction all day. One day, when I am rich, this will totally happen._

 _You guys have been absolutely amazing, by the way! I wouldn't have an audience to write for without you. Please keep your lovely comments coming._

 _(Also, it is one of my life ambitions to stay overnight in a medieval castle somewhere like Fiona. Where's somewhere you guys want to travel to/stay at?)_


	14. Chapter 14

**Anonymous review replies**

Vanime: Elrond's your favourite Elf? That's awesome! He is pretty cool. Daeron is definitely on the quirky side of things – I guess you don't live in Doriath run by a weird Elven king and an otherworldly Maia and then lose the love of your life and run away unscathed. I do admit, I wish I was an Elf sometimes too – being shown around a library by Elrond would be so cool. Thank you for your review!

Cedarlight: Thank you so much, I'm glad you're enjoying it – I wish I could update more often!

Inconnu: Yes, I like to think the Elves are all unique, and certainly not perfect – there's no fun in perfect people, after all. Elrond's definitely the grandfather type, which is why he's so protective of Fiona, but why he's also willing to let her make her own choices. You'd like to stay in a Welsh castle too? Yay! :D Yeah, I get a bit skittish about noises in the middle of the night. I can imagine a castle would probably make enough noise to freak me out too. Thank you for reviewing!

Guest: Hobbits are definitely cool, too, but I do like writing about Elves. I like imagining the Elves doing random everyday things like eating crappy microwave pasta and flicking through social media like the rest of us do. Also, that is such a compliment. ^_^ Thanks!

Guest: Aww, thank you! I sometimes eat Tim Tams at weird hours – if I found an Elf in my house doing the same thing I'd probably pass out from the sheer awesomeness.

* * *

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Elrond's dressing gown was a deep burgundy that billowed impressively around him as he strode out of the dining room, into the large main hall, and past the library they had talked in last night. Fiona had to quicken her step to keep up with his long stride.

"So where are we going, precisely?" she asked, curiosity quickly gaining the better of her.

"To the downstairs library, as Glorfindel indicated."

"Right," she said sheepishly. "And what are we looking at?"

"You will see," came the cryptic (and vaguely Gollum-esque) reply. It was such a typically Elvish answer. If Elrond weren't quite so intimidating, Fiona would have struggled to hide her frustration via a very teenage eye-roll.

They had come to a wide hallway whose arched windows lined up and faced the east, where the risen sun was throwing golden rectangles of light across the floor and up the high walls. Ahead of them rose a set of stairs that wound upwards into the first of the towers Fiona had seen when she arrived.

To the left was a walkway beneath an arch, and beyond that a room that she could see from here was full of books.

To Fiona's surprise, they must have been climbing a little – this part of the castle was elevated. Where they were standing was a good floor or two off the subtly sloping ground outside. That meant the library probably wasn't a cool dungeon-type thing, which was a little disappointing.

Elrond turned around at the arch and made a sweeping, solemn gesture. "After you, granddaughter."

The walkway was wide enough that she didn't need to squash past Elrond on her way. At the very entrance to the room she noticed a burnished wall sconce. _Whoa. Did they have torches here at some point?_

Elrond saw her looking and smiled. "This is an older part of the castle. The front rooms that you have been in are a mere two hundred years old. This library dates back almost six hundred."

"Would the torches have been allowed near the books, though?" Fiona pointed at the sconce.

"No. If anyone ventured down here in the dark for any purpose, they were required to keep the torch outside and make do with the light available."

 _I wonder if that's what Glorfindel meant by 'a more romantic spot'._

As she ventured in, Fiona's disappointment at the lack of dungeon-ness vanished. She could hardly help a long intake of breath as she passed beneath the arch. The walkway opened into a two-floor library whose time period would have been a little difficult to guess without Elrond's comment. Definitely mediaeval-ish, but with unfamiliar, ancient-looking designs to the round window that flooded the room with morning sunlight.

"This is so cool," whispered Fiona, walking tentatively towards some shelves to her left. Between them was a little study nook complete with two armchairs with high wooden backs.

"Ahhh and there's railings!" exclaimed Fiona, walking along the edge of one set of smooth wooden rails, which again had the ubiquitous ivy designs. She peered over the side. This part of the floor was supported by beautifully-carved columns, and she guessed that there were more artefacts hidden right below where they were standing.

And all around her old books of many sizes with frayed bindings leaned against one another on shelves that ran around the room and up the walls on both floors.

She turned around and gave Elrond what was probably a very toothy, nerdy grin that she couldn't stop from spreading over her face. "This is the best thing ever."

"I'm pleased you like it," answered Elrond, and while his own smile was a more dignified version of her own, she could see he was happy with her reaction.

Fiona leaned against the wood of the railing and breathed in the scent of vellum. Her grandfather came to stand next to her. She stole a glance at him. His side profile was a noble one, and not for the first time Fiona read the wisdom and patience of his long years that sat together on his features. He was not the sort of person whom Fiona could imagine being a king, exactly – not quite – but the term _Master_ suited him well.

"You are watching me." His voice held a touch of amusement.

"Sorry. My brain is still several days behind. I just…it's so beautiful. So much effort has gone into building this house for your books and anyone who wants to lose themselves in another world for a while."

"That does explain why you like my library, but not why you keep staring at me."

"Well, why do you think?" asked Fiona, not meaning to be rude but cringing when the words came out of her. She laughed awkwardly. "Three or four days ago I never would have woken up and gone to breakfast with an ancestor. Especially not a legendary Half-Elven one." She trailed towards the stairs. "Can I have a look?"

"Please."

Glad for the distraction, Fiona made her way downstairs. A tapestry on the wall opposite the stairs drew her eye. The art style was not one recognisable to her. A little faded, it spread over a large section of the wall. Across its surface raced horses with proud, yellow-haired riders, charging towards a white city nestled against a huge mountain face. It was beleaguered by hordes of snarling creatures, some of whom were being mercilessly trampled in the stampede.

She could have stopped breathing. It had to have been made a _very_ long time ago.

"Never were the Rohirrim such a welcome sight in Gondor than that day on the Pelennor Fields," murmured Elrond behind her. "Eorl's people fought bravely that day. Or so I am told."

"Wow." Fiona tentatively reached for the tapestry, then drew her fingers back, afraid of somehow damaging it. _How is it still intact after all this time?_

"Indeed. I believe Éowyn herself had a hand in creating this masterpiece."

"Oh?"

Elrond nodded. "She went with Faramir to Emyn Arnen where they ruled their own part of the land under King Elessar. When Legolas moved to Ithilien, he brought many of the Elves of Mirkwood with him, and the friendship that sprang up between his people and the people of Emyn Arnen was a powerful one.

"According to Legolas, Éowyn was not much for embroidery or fine arts, but she wished to ensure that her own hands had touched the making of this one. Look here." Elrond pointed, and Fiona saw a golden-haired lady fiercely standing over a dark, hooded shadow that had fallen to its knees. Behind the shadow was what looked to be a small boy in a helm holding a short sword. "Éowyn did nothing out of arrogance. But she wanted her people, and all her descendants, to know what strength lay in the arms of the people of Eorl. And in the Little People of the Shire, small yet strong."

"I kind of find myself wishing I'd known her," said Fiona after a moment, staring up at the golden-haired lady, and knowing with a sadness that this was likely all that remained of her in the world. "I think she would have been intimidating."

"She certainly intimidated Legolas," said Elrond wryly. "And he is not easily intimidated by anyone."

"So how did a Gondorian tapestry end up in New Imladris?"

"We collected many things over the years, some long after Gondor had ceased to be and the earth had begun to look much as it does now. I believe Glorfindel found this one in the back of a merchant's wagon. In Egypt."

"Glorfindel went to _Egypt_?" Fiona nearly squeaked.

"And Lindir. At one point it was a good place for trading. And their Pharaohs were distant cousins of the kings and queens of Far Harad."

 _Now that's a story I need to ask Lindir about the next time I see him._

She turned towards the columns and arches that were below the walkway that led to the top floor of the library. "What's on the shelves in there?"

"The most recent additions are probably from the late nineteenth century. I think we have a few first-edition Dickens publications in there. But there are Elizabethan ones, too, and some older hand-written medieval manuscripts." Elrond laughed at what must have been a look of open disbelief and yearning on Fiona's face. "They warned me about you."

"I doubt they prepared you adequately to receive such a nerd into your library." Fiona grinned, then caught herself. How, in all of half an hour, had she become so comfortable around Elrond?

"If you are indeed a…nerd, then it is in your blood. From both sides, I'm afraid. How is your father, anyway?"

"Uh…" Fiona trailed off and bit her lip. She hadn't actually properly talked to her dad – only swiped off some pictures she'd taken on the pre-vampire road trip yesterday.

A sickly guilt rose within her. He told her he hadn't been hospitalised at all in the US, that he was taking his meds daily. Still, she always kept an eye out for anything weird – the usual. Not sleeping, talking too fast. Believing he could fly.

A little manic was okay, because a little manic fuelled his passion for research and kept him happily lecturing on Georgian England and 18th century literature and whatever else. A lot of manic, on the other hand, was a problem. A big one.

Fiona fidgeted with the end of Lindir's scarf, which was a warm weight around her neck. "I wish I could answer your question, but the honest truth is that I haven't even thought to message him." She could feel her fingers trembling – half in fear, half in anger. "Which is pretty damn hypocritical after all the support I've pretty much demanded from everyone else."

Elrond did not contradict her. Instead he moved in front of her and tucked his hands behind his back. She looked away from his face, down at his feet. "I am well aware of your father's condition. Have you considered the possibility that there are people at his university even now who are on standby in case something happens?"

Fiona's head snapped up. "What?"

"You are family. Everyone close to the King's Heir is family. That includes those who are not of blood. Like your father. That is why he has been well looked-after by Thranduil's people in the United States."

 _More Elves? I just…I give up._

"I sense you are feeling overwhelmed at the moment." Her grandfather's voice was full of solemn concern. "There is much that you are learning, all in a short span of time. As I said last night, I most fervently wish that could have been prevented."

"No, I can see now that it's not your fault. I'm…" Fiona sighed wearily. "I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at myself right now. Angry that I've been too concerned with my own stuff to check up on my dad when I know he's got problems. Angry that I keep getting thrown by all these new revelations. I should be tougher. I _need_ to be tougher."

Quietness descended upon the both of them. Elrond was taking his sweet time responding. "On the contrary, granddaughter, you have taken it all in your stride. But I am not going to waste words pointlessly attempting to convince you that your thoughts and actions thus far are entirely normal, even good, all things considered. No one will convince you of that. Especially given how many concerns you have expressed so far over whether you are good enough for this family." He paused. "It is up to you – only you – to believe in yourself."

Fiona gaped at him, unsure what to say, and her phone rudely interrupted the moment by vibrating.

She reluctantly checked to see who messaged her, and not for the first time felt the weirdness of doing something so 21st-century in a castle.

 _Hello, love._

Thank goodness. It was her dad.

 _I hear you're in Wales now. If you see your_

 _grandfather, tell him I have a bone to pick with_

 _him – what's all this I hear about vampires?_

 _I don't want to come back to Melbourne and_

 _find my daughter drinking weird things. I'm in_

 _meetings all day today so I won't be able to take_

 _calls, but let me know that you're alright._

 _Also, I'm alright too. Just saying. I know_

 _you worry._

Fiona let out a long breath. "He's all good. A little less concerned about my _Twilight_ -esque escapades than he should be, but that's just him."

Elrond's raised eyebrows turned his whole face into a study of the words _I told you so._

But he had the good grace to say nothing and instead began heading in the direction of the huge rounded window Fiona had been admiring before. She swiped a quick message to Dean, telling him that she was safe in New Imladris and hanging out with Elrond, and that she would explain everything later. When she next looked up, she had to run to catch up with Elrond. What was he going to show her now?

The answer did not become apparent straight away when they arrived at the window and peered outside. Fiona looked questioningly at the Half-Elf at her side, then followed his gaze. This part of the land sloped downwards with trees just beginning to bud with the spring. Towers and a long wall veered off to the left.

"That is a part of the old house," explained Elrond when Fiona looked up at him.

"Very cool." She gave an approving nod and smiled. "How old are we talking?" _I'm now certain that I've asked more questions over these three days than in my entire year as a four-year-old._

Elrond rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I believe parts are still standing from the Second Age, when Elendil established the kingdom of Arnor and many watch towers and settlements rose in the North. Some of the foundations have been there for much longer."

"The mind boggles," said Fiona, shaking her head in amazement. "How is any of it still standing?"

"Beats me," spoke up a voice behind her. "Daeron even practises his violin in there on occasion. By all rights those walls should have toppled over centuries ago."

Lindir was pulling his long, thick chestnut hair into a tail when Fiona turned at the sound of his voice. "Elrond, surely you've bored the King's Daughter for long enough with historical trivia. Although," he amended at Fiona's glare, "it is _you_ we're talking about."

"No, you are quite right," Elrond said. "There is much more for you to see and I am sure you will not want to spend all your time trudging around after me."

 _Actually, I'd like nothing better right now_. She nearly said it, but bit her tongue.

Lindir gave up on his hair and, dropping his arms, gave her a wide smile. "I was wondering whether I might request the pleasure of your company today on a trip to Erynlad. I would have asked Glorfindel, but he is deep in debate with Erestor at this moment – and it's in Quenya. No one interrupts those two when they're talking in Quenya."

"Good to know I'm your second option," said Fiona, pretending to be offended, "but I'll take it."

Her heart was doing something strange in Lindir's presence again, and she put it down to the fact that she hadn't seen so much of him for a while. Except, like, half an hour ago at breakfast.

As usual, though, he didn't notice. "I'll wait outside. Come find me when you're done."

Elrond's facial expression spoke volumes once again when she turned to him, but in an instant he'd replaced it with his usual serenity. Fiona waited until Lindir left before speaking.

She gave a grimace. "I feel a little bad for leaving you," she said, and she was telling the truth.

"Don't," Elrond answered, with a small smile. "I am not offended. I have long since reconciled myself to the fact that everyone will want to take my granddaughter here, there and everywhere. And that she might actually want to go."

"I do want to go hang out with everyone." She hesitated. "I don't know you very well yet, but you're my granddad. Believe me, I want to make the time to hang out with you, too."

"I am sure we will get plenty more opportunity, even with Lindir being the way he is. Always he has been an enthusiastic mentor and friend to generations' worth of King's sons and daughters. Which is why," he added, gently taking her by the shoulders and steering her in the direction of the stairs, "you should take him up on his offer and go into the village."

OoO

Dutifully, Lindir was waiting outside the top floor of the library when Fiona emerged. "Nice scarf," he said, making a gesture towards his own neck. "Whoever gave it to you had superb taste."

Fiona snorted. " _And_ the grand idea to steal it off the British Royal Family."

"Retrieving a scarf that happens to fall out of a speeding carriage is hardly the same as stealing."

Together they made their way back through the house, though Fiona cast a curious glance behind her at the tower and mysterious corridors that led into the old part of the castle. Definitely something she would need to explore later.

"So what are you getting from the village?" she asked.

"Viola strings and a new batch of crucifixes," Lindir said, as though it were the most normal shopping list in the world. "I'd forgotten that before leaving for Australia I snapped my G string. Don't laugh," he added with a grin when Fiona, predictably, started to chuckle. "Why can't we be like the Americans and call them thongs? It would save us musicians a lot of trouble."

"Because thongs are what you wear on your feet."

"If you're from Australia."

"Which, oddly enough, I am." Fiona grinned up at him, and felt warmth spreading all the way to her toes when Lindir smiled back.

They were about to pass the dining room when Lindir stuck his head in. Fiona peered over his shoulder. As promised, Glorfindel and Erestor were still there, speaking in what she guessed was Quenya. It had a strange kind of flow to it. Narweth was finishing off some cereal, her phone sitting neatly before her on the table.

"Anyone want to come with us to Erynlad?" asked Lindir brightly.

Narweth gave him a bored look. Glorfindel and Erestor were too deep in discussion to notice.

"I'll take that as a no."

Fiona's sleeve hid a smile when she adjusted the scarf. _Is it bad that I'm kind of happy that I get to hang out one-on-one with one of my favourite Elves?_

When she found herself at the wooden doors at the castle's entrance, she tried her level best to ignore the creaking sighs and whispers as she passed through them into the cold air.

"It takes some getting used to," Lindir said, noticing her squeezing her eyes half-shut.

"Doors definitely don't talk where I come from." Fiona tucked her hands into her coat pockets as they crunched their way down the gorgeous tree-lined driveway, sunlight flashing through the branches. "I think what makes it twice as unnerving is that I have no idea what it's saying."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Old wood like that mostly just complains about the cold."

"That is…not as epic as I was expecting."

"Well, you can't expect anything too deep. They're doors." Lindir laughed and deftly moved out of the way when Fiona went to smack him in the ribs. "What did you think of the downstairs library? I believe Elrond was quite excited to show you."

"He doesn't look like the sort to get excited. More something like, _solemnly joyous_." Fiona tried to put on her best posh accent. "But yeah, to answer your question, I loved the library. It's beautiful and old and I'd really like to go and have a look at some of the books at some point. Did Glorfindel really try to hook up with someone in there?"

"I am not sure that's the term he'd use, but I do know he likes the quietness. There is certainly something romantic and whimsical about old libraries."

Fiona arched an eyebrow at him. _What are you doing?!_ the less bold part of her was frantically gibbering. "Are you saying you'd hook up in a library?"

Lindir glanced at her with amusement. "Do I look like the sort of _ellon_ who would do such a thing?" He shook his head. "Alas, I leave these things to Glorfindel. I do sometimes use the library if I feel like sitting somewhere and writing music. I will not, however, hang from the ceiling as Daeron purportedly did. Even if it would give me better song-writing perspective."

Together they were heading down a road that dipped downwards, then gently rose over a hill. Fiona huddled into the red scarf for warmth, and found herself trying to breathe in the smell of Lindir that still lightly clung to it. Rain before a storm. Fresh and wild and familiar.

Lindir gave a snort. "What _are_ you doing, King's Daughter?"

"Uh – nothing." Fiona dropped the ends of the scarf hastily. "I was just a bit cold, that's all. I was thinking about something Elrond told me before. Back in the library. He said that you were always a kind of a mentor to past King's Heirs and stuff."

Lindir inclined his head. "I suppose that is true."

"But why?"

They walked in silence for a few moments. "Arwen asked Elrond to take care of her children. Whatever Elrond considers a sacred duty, all of Rivendell hastens to fulfil it alongside him."

"Okay, but why you, specifically?" Fiona pressed. It wasn't just that she was eager to get Lindir's mind off the fact that she'd been sniffing his scarf. She needed to know why he was going to such lengths to be her friend. Maybe it was just as Elrond had said – that he had been mentoring King's Heirs for centuries. It was probably stretching it a bit to hope that he wanted to be friends because she was...just herself.

"Well," began Lindir, and Fiona detected an unusual note of hesitation in his musical voice, "I confess I'm unsure where to begin with that. Do you know, yesterday a memory came to mind which I had long buried in a forgotten corner. I promised after that that I would not allow you to see the interrogator I once was, especially after I so clearly frightened you at the restaurant. With the moustached man I questioned, I mean."

"Hey, it's okay. You did what you needed to do, and I was kind of in shock. Almost anything would have terrified the crap out of me at that point." Brave words, but Fiona still felt an echo of that fear at the mention of that side to Lindir of which she had had a glimpse. The sunlight glinting from the dew still on the grass and turning the leaves around her to gold was not quite enough to smother that memory.

"Be that as it may, I have absolutely no desire to return to that person. It was disturbing to find how easy it was to do it. Which is why I was not going to mention this, but I feel that honesty compels me." Strangely, his words were lightly spoken despite their content.

"Well, you've mentioned it now, so you might as well tell me."

Lindir grimaced. "Alright, but it is not pretty. There was a time that I used my skills to torture a King's Heir."

He kept walking, stopped, and turned around quizzically. Fiona stared at him, unable to move for a moment. He could have pulled his pants down in front of her and she would have been less surprised. "...Did I hear that right? Did you just say that you _tortured_ a King's Heir?"

"Yes." Lindir's voice was still light, as though he had been chatting about what a nice morning it was. "His name was Alstern, and I killed him."

* * *

 _A/N: I would love to update more often, but it takes me a while to write anything half-decent – I figure it might be worth the wait if it means you guys get longer chapters!_

 _Many thanks for your kind reviews. I honestly enjoy the feedback, so if you have any comments, I'd love to hear from you. :)_

 _(As extra incentive, cookies will be delivered in exchange for feedback by your favourite Hobbit/Man/Elf/Dwarf/Balrog etc.)_


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** _Because there have been weeks between updates, I'll forgive anyone for forgetting Alstern. Remember that nasty English nobleman Lindir kind of found himself working for? Check out the first half of Chapter 10 if you've forgotten!_

 **Anonymous review replies**

Vanime: You probably have said it before, but I don't mind if you say it again. :P Elrond is hard because he's meant to be wise and I'm…not all that wise. So it's a lot of me taking a stab in the dark to write his character. And hopefully not killing any Elves. Yep, Thranduil is in the US of A! We may meet him later, depending on how things go. I can't answer any of those questions just yet because they're addressed in this chapter. :D I don't know why I imagined no one interrupting Erestor and Glorfindel when they're conversing in Quenya – I just did. What scares the other Elves about them shall remain a mystery for now. All we know for the present is that those two speaking in Quenya means that shit's going down. :P Fiona was a bit torn between hanging out with her cool granddad or hanging out with her favourite musician Elf. Much as she loves books, she figured she'd have plenty of time to look at them. Elrond's promised her, after all. Thank you so much for your review, and thank you even more so if you've read this monster of a reply!

OoO

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 _His name was Alstern, and I killed him._

There wasn't a whole lot of regret in Lindir's tone, which was a little worrying.

It should not have come as a surprise to learn that an Elf might have had occasion to kill someone. Living for a long time would present plenty of opportunities. It was only a matter of time before you would meet someone who annoyed you enough. Besides, they'd lived through some pretty brutal ages and been warriors of Middle-Earth. What kind of warrior didn't leave casualties?

But Lindir, with his clever musician's hands and ready smile, did not seem to fit the killer mould.

Not, that is, until Fiona searched his eyes, wide and dark, for something – anything – that suggested he might have been sorry for killing a descendant of Aragorn, and found very little.

That low, smoldering fear from yesterday now grabbed a fistful of her stomach and twisted. Hard. _Fine drapery on steel machines._ How could she end up being thrown from feeling safe with these Elves to feeling terrified within moments?

"I guess you had your reasons," Fiona said, shrugging in a way she hoped was nonchalant. She kept walking.

Until a warm hand reached for hers. And she had to stop then, because it was Lindir, and he was touching her, and she had to turn around and look at his high cheekbones and into his eyes and her own tight-lipped reflection mirrored there.

"You need not hide your fear, King's Daughter. You are in Elven company."

"Sorry. Gut reaction. Usually when someone says something shocking in Mortal company, you shake it off." She gave a nervous chuckle. He kept a hold of her hand. "Here I was thinking that I'd been doing pretty well on the honesty front."

"You are."

"So this Alstern guy was an ancestor of mine?"

A nod. "His grandfather's family had fled due to political troubles and imminent fear of assassination, and lived beyond our reach until two generations later, when Alstern came back to take charge of his father's estate. I worked for him. I had no idea who he was."

"When you say _worked for him_ —"

"I was always good at getting information, and Alstern was in need of my services. On top of that, the Scottish plot to replace the King was slowly brewing, and Alstern had enough connections that he could put my friends in formidable danger with a snap of his fingers. Which he threatened to do. Having them charged with treason and imprisoned and then quietly delivered to his _medically-minded friends_ , was how I believe he phrased it."

Lindir looked away as he was talking. Fiona noticed it was the first time he seemed not to want to meet her gaze. "I would not have worked for him at all, but the times were troubled. And while I believe Glorfindel and Erestor might have been able to defend themselves, corruption was all too common among Mortal nobility. The truth meant less than the depth of a lord's pockets. And scientific discovery at the time involved grave robberies and – and cutting open the living. If Alstern said that he could expose my friends as being anything but human, he would have fought tooth and nail to do so."

When Fiona didn't say anything, Lindir's eyes grew haunted. It was a frightening transformation. "Fiona, this was a man who laughed when he fleeced less fortunate younger sons of their entire month's allowance gambling and spent it all on a single evening's worth of drinking. He found it amusing to seduce young women and then tell their husbands, and he found it hilarious when on the odd occasion he could bed some young fellow and then spread such rumours that the poor sod would never gain his social standing back." He passed a hand over his face, the one that wasn't holding hers, as though trying to wipe some memory away with it. "Having the Elves exposed would have just been another interesting diversion for him."

Fiona swallowed. "It's hard to believe that someone descended from Aragorn could be that malicious," she said.

"Oh, he was a right bastard," Lindir said with a wry smile. "But he was raised to be both spoilt and fearful, and so he was always his own first priority. With a better upbringing and a more loving family, things could have been quite different." He paused. "His mother was a unique terror, probably mentally ill, definitely abusive. His father was away a lot. It's no wonder he grew up choosing to use and manipulate."

Fiona licked her lips, which were getting a little dry from being outside. It seemed that Lúthien's line had been fraught with darkness. Her own grandfather had been mistreated as a child. Far back, Isildur had given in to the temptation of the One Ring. Ar-Pharazôn, the last king of Numenor, had been seized with madness and married his cousin and marched on the Undying Lands to wrest immortality from the Valar. Had Lúthien foreseen any of this happening to her descendants? Her line might never die, but it had lived through horrors beyond imagining.

"This is the question that I'm afraid to ask," Fiona said, almost hearing her voice coming from far away, "but what did you do to him?"

"Glorfindel and Erestor were living in Scotland at the time. I told Alstern that as soon as I found a way to ensure that they were safe from whatever he had in mind for them, I would come back for him. And I did. The rage was…overwhelming."

And something clicked into place. That was what Erestor was on about yesterday. _I am loath to leave you to deal with this when I know full well what may happen._ He meant he was worried Lindir would snap.

Because, she realised, horrified fascination churning her gut, that it had happened before.

"How…how long have you been interrogating people?"

"A long time. I first discovered I had the talent before my coming-of-age. When—" He stopped suddenly, eyes wide. There were images flashing in them, in the same way she'd noticed when he'd been asleep. Was he in the middle of a flashback? Fiona looked closer, and immediately regretted it.

A small Elfling with chestnut hair crying beside a body. Surrounded by many bodies. A teenaged Elf with blood trickling between his clenched fists. Some hideous creature she didn't recognise – an Orc, maybe – screaming. A hatchet slamming over and over and over into something. Something that kept screaming and begging for mercy in some language whose words she didn't know, but whose message was clear enough.

The images vanished in an instant and Lindir blinked, coming back to the present.

"That was before Glorfindel and Erestor found me," he said softly. "Together they saved me from the path I could have chosen. It was my turn to save them. Even if it meant – even if I had to dredge up and call upon the very darkness they saved me from."

Fiona's vision was beginning to blur.

"I don't know what to say."

"You need not say anything."

"No, I – at first I was trying not to judge whatever you'd done. Now I'm trying to get over the fact that horrible things just…happen, out of the blue. That the world is a lot meaner than I ever thought it was, and that it's what makes people become what they are." She steadied herself with a breath. "I'm only just now learning how little I know about anything."

She looked down at their hands, still clasped together. Was she still holding on out of pity? Or, worse, was she holding on because she understood?

"When I realised what I'd done, that I had in a fit of cold rage ended a descendant of the line of Lúthien, my despair was unimaginable. I had made a promise with all of Rivendell to the Evenstar herself, and had broken it in the worst way possible.

"Elrond could have had me punished. Exiled. Or worse. Only, he was already taking the blame on himself for not looking hard enough when his family disappeared. Alstern could have grown up in the noble image of his ancestors, rather than the callous, diminished shadow of a manipulator he became."

"So you made a promise to undo the wrong you'd done," said Fiona softly. "To make up for the fact that you tortured a King's Heir—"

"And to make up for the fact that none of us knew of whose line he really was, and never thought to find out. That I never thought to save him." He scratched with his free hand behind his head. "When Alstern died, the threat to my oldest and dearest friends went with him. But my own actions, the dark thirst for blood which I gave myself up to? That I regret. It was entirely unnecessary. And my hands will never be wholly clean, though nearly three hundred years have passed."

The sun might have been warm had it been closer to summer. Fiona could feel it nearly straining to have its rays reach the earth, to try and warm a single atom of the air that surrounded them. If Lindir was straining to reach her heart, to somehow explain the darkness within him and tell her it was okay, she wasn't sure how she felt.

"Well, thanks for the confession," Fiona said, trying to lift some of the heaviness even though tears were openly rolling down her cheeks. "But…it's going to be hard for me to think of you in the same way."

"I wouldn't expect anything different," Lindir answered quietly. "In fact, I'd probably find myself wondering whether there was something wrong if you were all, 'Yep, cool,' and went on as though nothing had happened." He smiled when Fiona gave a strange sob of a laugh. "But to this day he is the only King's Heir in the line's long history who ever truly threatened the safety of New Imladris. And in the three hundred years since I have kept my promise to every King's Heir: not only never to harm, but to ever be a friend they could trust."

At his words, so sincerely spoken, Fiona bit her lip. Several images drifted across her mind. Lindir cheerfully traipsing about with her luggage without being asked. Lindir patiently answering her every question. Lindir taking off his scarf and gifting it to her on the spot. Lindir brightly trying to get her to share in his stash of cookies and junk food.

Lindir making sure that Gareth the chauffeur had comfortable lodgings by threatening to sleep in an alley, despite his every protestation. Or being the first to go out and find Fiona's mother as a little girl, even if it meant risking the anger of an unstable Elf. Or determinedly tracking down a dying boy's girlfriend – when he knew neither of them – and intimidating a crime lord into releasing her.

Lindir bantering with Erestor on the plane. Teasing Fiona for being a Legolas fangirl.

His reaction to learning that she had been threatened by the moustached guy. _You could've hurt someone under my protection, and quite frankly I don't take kindly to people who attack my friends without provocation._ That glimpse of dark anger she had seen…it had all been for her. Purely for her.

That anger, and also all the kindness she'd seen in him. His refusal to give in to sadness and despair. The way he subtly lit up every room he entered.

And this, she realised, was the Lindir she knew. The one she trusted.

"But…" Fiona croaked out the words only with difficulty. "How can I know that you won't snap?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Because you are the King's Daughter, and I have made a promise," Lindir said, solemn and quiet. "Because this darkness no longer has any power over me. But if you cannot trust my word, then trust this."

His fingers slowly intertwined with hers, making her heart race.

"And this." His other hand came up to touch her face, brushing back her red-brown curls.

"And this." His feet edged one step closer, and the warm pressure of his lips against her forehead startled her and at the same time made her want to wrap her arms around him tightly and hold him against her longer than she had any right to.

He released her, all too soon, and she laughed softly. "That was really mushy."

"Disgusting, isn't it? Please don't make me do anything mushier," Lindir answered with a grimace of mock horror, and Fiona couldn't help a giggle, even though it felt entirely out of place.

But she sobered after a moment. This changed things. It changed everything. She struggled to identify the strange grey feeling gnawing at the edges of her consciousness and realised it was the sense of nostalgia being slowly eaten away. Or torn away.

Whatever she'd imagined about one of her favourite Elves when she was no more than a book-loving nerd and not a descendant of Aragorn – whatever she'd read or written in her terrible fanfics – that was gone. Gone, and for good, and entirely replaced by this stranger who turned into an Elvish Jack the Ripper when the moon was full or some crap.

It puzzled her that she wasn't running screaming back to the castle, instead of replaying the feeling of his fingers clasping hers and him kissing her forehead.

There just wasn't enough time to think about it, and she doubted trying to analyse it would help. _Save it for the history essays._ She wiped the rapidly drying tears from her face, and when Lindir turned his sunny smile on her, she tried to make herself believe that the light in him was equally real as the dark.

 **A/N:** I realised about halfway through writing this that I would need to split the chapter in two – the next part is a decent bit longer and while I like for you guys to have nice long chapters to read, it might be a bit much! The good news is that the next one should be out a lot quicker.

Random fact: this is officially the longest fanfic I've written, ever. :O

Second random fact: It's the night of the 31st here in Australia and for some weird reason Halloween seems to be starting to become a thing. But, thanks to that, I got to wear my chunky black goth heels to work!

Thank you for reading, as usual. You've all been very supportive of this story and it makes me happy to receive all your kind feedback. :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Anonymous review replies**

Vanime: No, Glorfindel is definitely glorious – full permission to call him that. I don't remember reading that he was part Maia, and Tolkien didn't definitely say that Glorfindel the Balrog-Slayer was the same as Glorfindel of Rivendell – but the idea that Glorfindel came back from the dead to Rivendell is such a popular one that it's almost canon! I certainly like the idea. :D Interesting theory, and I can't tell you whether you're right or not because you'll have to keep reading! And yes, I can imagine my version of Elrond being pretty darn scary when he needs to be. You're right, we haven't seen the twin sons of Elrond yet, but that doesn't mean we won't! Definitely not boring me – I love a nice review, and you always leave lovely ones! Thank you for taking the time to leave a comment, as always!

Inconnu: That's perfectly fine, and I hope that your life gets a little less hectic! I figured that the Elves would certainly have dark patches in their histories, and flaws too – they're 'human' in a sense, just like Mortals, except for immortality and possibly better emotional control. I think Fiona is pretty careful, but she's still only 22 and her curiosity and determination to learn about history is going to get the better of her. Which means she may end up disregarding Gareth's words at some point! Yep, that's why I wrote that last part so ambiguously! Fiona can't figure out what it all means, which is part of the story. :D We may end up seeing the twins, but I won't say more than that just yet. I'm so glad that you're enjoying the story! Thank you for reviewing.

Cedarlight: Aaaand here's another update! :D Thank you for reviewing!

OoO

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Is Erynlad Elvish or Welsh?"

The two of them had been walking for some time now, following the road from the end of the castle's driveway. Ahead were clusters of houses that sloped downwards and away from a strange heap of stones that crowned the hill behind. It had probably been another fortification, once upon a time.

There was hardly any breeze at all, and Fiona found herself warming up – to the point where she'd taken off the red scarf and put it in her coat pocket, where it stuck out and made her shadow on the ground take on a weird hip deformity.

"Elvish," answered Lindir, "but as I'm sure you've noticed, Sindarin and Welsh are close cousins. Most people would probably think the town was named in some old Welsh dialect."

"I'm guessing that was before it ended up in Elrond's emphatically non-magic circle thing."

The Elf smirked.

Fiona held her arms out. "See? I'm learning."

"I can see that. But yes, now that the town is within Elrond's circle of protection, it doesn't matter much whether people would recognise the name's roots anyway."

"So if it's Elvish, it means _wooded valley_." It was Fiona's turn to smirk at Lindir's open "Huh!" of surprise. "All that Tolkien geekery is clearly paying off."

Lindir gave a snort, a sound that sat weirdly with his decidedly Elven voice. "You can't tell me you knew enough Elvish before today to decipher that."

"Are you saying you don't trust me?" Lindir raised an eyebrow and Fiona sighed. "Okay, so I Googled _eryn_ in Sindarin literally right now." She held her phone up. "But I knew _lad_ from stuff like _Imladris_ and _Himlad_."

"Alright, show-off. Let's see if you can break down _Lithlad_ in Mordor."

An obnoxious car horn blasted behind them suddenly. Fiona nearly jumped out of her skin, while Lindir, by contrast, calmly turned towards the source of the noise.

Glorfindel was at the wheel, grinning madly, and next to him Erestor's face appeared as the window slid down. With sunglasses on, the Noldorin Elf looked even scarier and Men-In-Black-ish than usual.

Lindir walked towards them, holding his arms up as if to say, _What the hell, man?_

"If you had waited but a moment," said Erestor flatly, "you would have heard me saying that I would be happy to go into the village with you."

"Alas, I didn't wait." Lindir jerked his head in the direction of the car with a smile, and Fiona followed wordlessly, slumping into the back seat as he took the other side.

Fiona did her level best to ignore the gap that seemed to nearly yawn between them on the back seat. Glorfindel began to chatter eagerly, and Fiona listened to him and Lindir banter to take her mind off the fact that there was too much space, and that things weren't going to be the same again any time soon. So, as usual, she turned her attention to her surroundings.

The hill was actually a lot higher than it had looked from all the way back there, and Fiona noticed that a couple of houses straggled down its slopes and into the main village of Erynlad. They nearly seemed to blend into the landscape, as though they had always been there, growing up out of the hills.

The car jounced unceremoniously into the main village. Old buildings from a bunch of different eras crowded the streets, leaning here and there comically. The historical effect was partially ruined by the fact that there were cars and modern signage, and people in modern clothes – looking not the least bit Middle-Earthian – going about their business. There was even a group of Tumblr-esque teenagers wandering down an alley in dark lipstick and beanies.

Most intriguingly, there were a few people slightly taller than the others, ones who dotted the streets here and there and stood out. Dark-haired and grey-eyed and solemn.

"Descendants of the Dúnedain," Glorfindel pointed out. "Well, nearly all of them are descendants of the Dúnedain, but some look it more than others."

"My...um, grandfather, was telling me that some of them still have longer lives than the usual." The word still felt weird in her mouth.

"One of them happens to be the blacksmith you'll be visiting," he replied as they pulled over outside a post office. "Pushing sixty years old and doesn't look a day over thirty-five."

Glorfindel let her, Lindir and Erestor out of the car before taking off again to do whatever it was Glorfindel did, and together the three of them made their way down the street. Nods and enthusiastic greetings met the Elves as they passed (Lindir answered jovially, and Erestor always with a grave nod), and not a few curious looks were aimed in her own direction.

Fiona's discomfort didn't stop her from staring back if she caught anyone watching her. And after a few times she noticed she was doing it. Pre-Wales Fiona would have felt less bold, but then again, pre-Wales Fiona hadn't dealt with a whole lot. Not compared to now. And something in her felt the need to prove that she was tough, that she could deal with it. Something that steadily grew and made her hold her head higher with every step she took.

An old-fashioned bell rang over their heads as they walked through the doors of Erynlad's forge and found a small room with all sorts of odds and ends littering shelves or standing in display cabinets. An acrid, metallic smell crawled up into Fiona's nostrils and settled at the back of her throat.

She tried not to breathe in too much and stopped in front of one of the display cabinets to admire a collection of rapiers of varying size. _These look like props from some movie about the Musketeers._

"These are really nice," she said aloud, just as a man she assumed was the owner came through a set of doors at the end of the room. Grey eyes met hers solemnly over the top of his reading glasses, which he removed to reveal a handsome Númenorean face set with grey eyes like the ones she'd seen outside.

The man nodded in response to her compliment. "Made by my third-year apprentice, Sam."

"He's done a good job. Not that I know anything about swords."

"Sam'll be happy to know you like them regardless," answered the forge's owner. He glanced up at Lindir and Erestor. "Here to pick up?"

"Yes," answered Erestor. "I assume they're finished."

A small box thumped onto the counter while Fiona was busy taking a picture of the rapier collection for later. Mackenzie probably couldn't care less about swords, but she knew Ryan would probably want to show his nerdy Skyrim-playing buddies. And it was distracting her from the burning, chemically smell.

Putting her phone away, she peered around Erestor's broad-shouldered form and at the silver metal glinting in the light that shone through the windows. While she wasn't religious herself, she recognised a crucifix when she saw one – and there was more than one in that box. Fairly small, no bigger than a finger's length, a Christ with a sad expression hanging on each one.

"That's a lot more crucifixes than I've ever seen in one place," she said, keeping down a cough. "Are they all pure silver?" _What the hell are they burning in the back room?_

"Yes, which makes them a good protection against our fanged friends." Lindir glanced at the forge owner behind the counter. Fiona noticed a little name tag that read _Michael_. "Have these been blessed yet?"

Michael shook his head. "Haven't had the chance yet. There's been a whole lot of orders after that LARPing community took up residence near Carmarthen."

"Hmm." Lindir's eyes settled on Fiona. "Would you like to take these down to the church to get them blessed? You look as though you're dying."

"Uh—"

Michael actually smiled. "The smell of the forge takes some getting used to. This forge in particular. And especially when we're using, let's say, unconventional materials." He pushed the box towards her and pointed out the door. "Just keep following this road and you'll see the church of Saint Gwenffrwd right on the bend. When you get there, head to the presbytery and ask for Father Ellis."

Gratefully, Fiona took the box and headed straight for the door. Once outside she let herself take in a great gasp of fresh, non-forge air and waited for the dizziness to pass. Strong, chemically smells had never sat too well with her.

When she felt less light-headed she began to make her way down the sunny street in the direction Michael had pointed her – and then abruptly realised that she had no idea where or what a presbytery was. She'd been too busy struggling to breathe to clarify details. Hesitantly, she looked behind her, then sighed and continued onwards – there was no way she was going to go back in there.

 _Father Ellis better be out in his garden or somewhere easier to look_ , she grumbled inwardly, and reflected that getting vampire talismans blessed was not at all how she'd envisaged spending this part of the year.

A wooden sign proclaiming CHAPEL OF ST. GWENFFRWD in simple metal lettering stood right near the bend in the main street. _Bloody Welsh spelling. That looks nothing like 'Gwen-i-fred'._

Fiona shuffled over the grass until she found the path leading to the church, the weight of the box tucked beneath her arm now beginning to be an issue. She tried to adjust it on her hip. _I'm ditching this thing on the first flat surface I see._

The church, or chapel, or whatever it was, didn't look like an old one – which made Fiona sigh internally. Little Gothic-style windows lined the small building, but she suspected it was under a hundred years old, and after staying overnight in a castle whose library had been built in the 1400s, she found it hard to be a bit more impressed.

Thankfully, the door stood open, so she didn't have to struggle with the box. Pews sat in neat rows either side of the small nave, and a rich red carpet, awash with warm sunlight, ran down the middle to an altar. The altar definitely was impressive. Behind black iron railings, it sat bedecked in candles and wound round with carvings. It gave the place an air of solemnity.

Fiona searched for a sign that said _presbytery_ but was sadly disappointed. With a grunt, she hauled the box onto the nearest pew and plopped down next to it. In the quiet the noise echoed. She pulled out her phone. It read 10.30 AM.

 _Now all I need to do is wait for Father…Ellis, was it? I hope he's hanging around somewhere._

The minutes quietly ticked over. Ordinarily, Fiona would have loved sitting by herself to think, but her mind took it as an opportunity to keep rewinding and freezing her conversation with Lindir. Repeatedly.

She didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think about the boy sitting by himself, terrified, a lone survivor surrounded by the dead. She didn't want to think about teenaged Lindir in search of revenge, clutching a hatchet. She didn't want to think about her ancestor Alstern, laughing into his cup of wine and watching the crestfallen anxiety on a young lord's face as he gave up the last few gold coins remaining to him. She didn't want to think of his mangled corpse splayed on the floor with Lindir wiping the blood from his face.

Fiona balled her fists near her temples. It was hard. There had been so much tenderness, so much sincerity, in the way Lindir had – well. She believed he meant what he'd said – that he'd made a promise, and that he intended to keep it. But it was still hard.

Leaping to her feet in search of something else to occupy her thoughts, Fiona's eyes lit on one of the many little books that haphazardly lined the pews. She took one and flipped through it. It was a hymnal, with a lot of dry religious poetry, but that wasn't all. The second half of the book contained bits of liturgy – all in Latin.

"Ooh," she murmured, her interest piqued. Her Latin wasn't great – she'd taken a unit or two back in first year and didn't do well – but an idea was slowly coming to her. If Father Ellis didn't show up, she'd have to go back with the crucifixes unblessed. Which she didn't want to do, in case the Elves were planning on actually using them soon.

So what if she did a sort of…temporary blessing to tide them over until they could see the priest?

Fiona's shoulders slumped. She knew it was a dumb idea the moment it occurred to her, but it had been fifteen minutes and Father Ellis was nowhere to be found. At the very least it would be an opportunity to resurrect her admittedly crap Latin skills and find a way to amuse herself for a while. She doubted anything she did would have any effect anyway.

She flipped through the hymnal in search of some sort of prayer to ward off evil, and to her surprise, she didn't find anything. _You'd think the Church would have written at least_ one _thing about protection from malicious forces._ The only thing that might have remotely met what she was looking for came from the Requiem Mass for the Dead, which had a few gloomy chants written under weird little black squares and diamonds.

"Dies irae, dies illa," Fiona muttered to herself, reading off the top line of the first verse of a chant. It translated to _day of wrath, day of woe_ , and it sounded impressive enough.

Feeling more than a little weird, she cleared her throat and stood over the box of silver crucifixes.

" _Dies irae, dies illa,  
Solvet saeculum in favilla,  
Teste David cum Sybilla._"

"Wait…who the hell is David?"

Of course, there was no answer, so she kept reading.

" _Quantus tremor est futurus,  
quando iudex est venturus,  
cuncta stricte discussurus._"

"I'm not sure what you're doing," spoke a dry Welsh accent behind her, making her jump and whip around. "But that is from the Mass of the Dead, and the last guy who died around here was buried a few months ago."

Red-faced, Fiona gave the priest a hard glare. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, probably somewhere in his thirties, with grey beginning to streak the brown hair near his temples. He was folding his arms across his chest, looking somewhat amused.

"You're new," he observed. His voice was a pleasant baritone. "We don't get too many visitors to Erynlad. But most of them don't start praying in morbid Latin as soon as they set foot in the chapel."

"Well," Fiona managed huffily, "I wouldn't have had to start if I'd known where you were."

"The presbytery, calling through my usual list to see if I could get an extra altar boy for tonight's evening Mass."

There was that damn word again. "And if I knew what a presbytery was, I would have checked there first."

Father Ellis began making his way towards her down the centre aisle, waving a hand in the vague direction of outdoors. "It's a house where priests live. Our presbytery is right behind the church and is a bit hard to see from the road." He stopped and gave her a smile. "So what can I do for you? I apologise if you've been waiting a while."

"Um, no, that's okay. I just have these crucifixes that need blessing." She gestured to the box sitting on the pew.

Father Ellis frowned. "Those wouldn't happen to be silver, would they?"

"They are. We just picked them up from the blacksmith's."

"Who's _we_?"

Was she supposed to say their names? She decided to take a chance. "Myself, Erestor and…Lindir."

"Ah." Father Ellis gave a nod of recognition. "Then you must be the new Heir. I really hope they're not dragging you into supernatural business this early on in the piece."

Fiona winced.

"Well, that's a worry. Never mind. I'll give these a blessing and let you get back to your friends."

Fiona backed out of the pew and came to stand beside the priest after he pulled out some strip of expensive-looking material with a little cross embroidered on it in gold thread. Her heart beat a little faster. She'd never seen a real ritual being performed before.

Father Ellis solemnly made a sign in the air in the shape of a cross over the box.

Then he kissed the piece of holy material and put it into his pocket.

Fiona gaped in disbelief. "That was it?"

"Why? What were you expecting?"

"I don't know!" Fiona exclaimed, throwing her hands up in frustration. "I could have done that!"

Father Ellis threw back his head and laughed. "Not unless you're an ordained priest."

"Yeah, but—"

The priest silenced her with a sigh. "Fine. Maybe I can find another few prayers against vampires to say, if that's more impressive."

Fiona looked at him dubiously. "Does the Church believe in vampires?"

He shrugged. "There's nothing in the articles of faith that directly says they're not real, if that's what you mean. You'll find the Church is very much open to possibility. From what I can tell, the vampire legend was quite popular in Eastern European folklore, and I knew a Bulgarian chap at the seminary who said there was a tradition among his family that told of priests who would secretly fight evil forces in the Middle Ages. One of the ways they would do that was apparently to bless weapons with an old prayer."

"You wouldn't happen to know it, would you?"

"Unfortunately, I do," answered Father Ellis dryly. "Anyone who becomes a parish priest in Erynlad ends up going through lengthy consultations with the Elves on the hill, after which they discover that things like vampires do indeed exist."

"So what exactly will these things do against a vampire?" Fiona sank down into the pew, her legs beginning to get tired. Father Ellis sat down in the pew opposite, leaning on his knees earnestly.

"Theoretically? They give a nasty burn. There haven't been any vampires around in my time, but several of my predecessors trained in these things just in case. Vampires tend to stay away from people whom they can smell silver on, and they don't particularly like anything blessed. It reminds them of, you know." He pointed upwards.

"Wait." Something sparked in the depths of Fiona's memory. Mentally she searched through her library of supernatural lore – which was woefully small, and mostly based on Netflix series she'd watched, but— "This is going to sound weird, but is there anything that can amplify the power of these crosses?"

"Crucifixes," corrected Father Ellis, "and I'm not sure what you mean."

"I mean, something that kind of activates or channels supernatural power." She waved her hand in frustration. "Exorcisms usually involve _words_ , don't they? Or magic spells?"

"I wouldn't know," answered the priest flatly. "I haven't come across anyone in Erynlad who was either possessed or practising magic."

"No, but, like, as a general idea in stories and movies and that. Behind every fiction is usually some appalling fact – I should know. I'm living in one." She frowned. "My point is that I think speech can bring power to life – almost like words are the gateway between us and what lies beyond."

Father Ellis nodded slowly. "You may be onto something. In the Catechism it is specified that words and rituals are ways of making the unseen visible. Maybe words amplify the effects."

"Exactly." Fiona began to get excited. She was getting somewhere. "So if that's the case, then is there something other than the blessing you just did that can make these things do extra damage?"

"I may be wearing a dress, but that doesn't make me a wizard. However," he added, holding up a placating hand when Fiona opened her mouth to protest, "I'm willing to do what it takes to help you and the Eldar on your quest. I have no desire to meet a vampire in real life, but the day I see one may come sooner than expected if these ones get their hands on the seeing-stone you lot are after."

"That's the weird thing. I don't know what they'd even want with it."

"Hard to tell. But let's concentrate on finding the answer to your first question."

Father Ellis vanished into a little back room behind the altar while Fiona stood awkwardly looking at the statues of the Virgin and Child and what were probably various saints. They all looked down at her benignly, but knowingly. She wondered if they sensed that she hadn't really been to many churches before for reasons other than admiring the architecture, and that the only reason she was here now was to sheepishly ask Ilúvatar for some powered-up crucifixes. It made her feel strangely guilty.

The priest reappeared shortly with a small, worn black book. "Exorcism rites," he explained at her puzzled head tilt. "Possession and vampirism are two different things, but there may still be something useful in here. Shall we?"

OoO

Some time later, Fiona left the open doors of the chapel behind her and waved to Father Ellis. A strange feeling stole over her as she tromped across the grass. A kind of warmth that made her heart beat high in her chest, and which made her begin to smile. It was difficult to identify, for a moment.

Until she realised what it was. Achievement. Pride. She'd done something useful for a change. She'd gone and done something, finally, without consulting a single Elf.

Without her even meaning it, the glow she felt spread and made her struggle to hide a grin. Maybe she _could_ do this. Maybe she could prove that she wasn't just some clueless kid wearing the title of Lúthien's Heir like an oversized jumper.

Maybe her job was just to ask questions. She was an academic. She could do that.

 _Take that, Narweth._

The box of crucifixes felt lighter in her arms. No vampire or dark Elven story was going to bring her down now.

She caught sight of Glorfindel parking his car and climbing out to meet Lindir and Erestor. They were all still outside the blacksmith's where Fiona had left them. Her spirits soared when Lindir shone his bright smile on her and she quickened her step to meet him. They stopped a mere foot from one another.

"I did it," Fiona blurted out with a grin, before any of the Elves could begin, "and I think I know how to set vampires on fire."

* * *

 _A/N: I hope no one takes offence to this fictional interpretation of Catholicism! If it helps, I happen to be Catholic - I just think the idea of priests kicking vampire butt is awesome._

 _Fun fact: I wrote a lot of this chapter and the next on my phone because I didn't get much of a chance to sit down with my laptop – with the result that I kept getting some pretty bad autocorrects. Lindir often comes up as Lindt, like the chocolate, and Daeron as Drain and Dickbag respectively – no idea where the second came from._

 _Does anyone else's phone come up with hilarious predictive text when you're typing Middle-Earth related stuff?_

 _If I don't manage to update before Christmas, then I hope everyone has a very Merry Christmas (if you celebrate it - if not, have a good holiday) and an awesome New Year. :)_

 _Thank you for reading!_


	17. Chapter 17

**Guest review replies**

Vanime: Questions which will be answered soon! I hope you had an awesome Christmas too. :D

Inconnu: Actually, the Latin isn't from The Hunchback – I did Latin at school and I kind of still remember bits and pieces because I did some tutoring. #nerdlyf Yes, Lindir and Fiona found each other via serendipitous accident! Haha, Legolas would totally have done that. :P Hope you had a lovely Christmas and New Year!

Baroquevet: Aww, thank you! Genuinely made my day to get your review. :D And hello, fellow Melbournian. We are totally under-represented. We might see a few other Elves rock up as the story unfolds, but we'll see what happens. Glorfindel appreciates your admiration and sends you a wink in response. :P Thank you for reviewing!

Diarona: I didn't quite see this story taking so many weird and random turns either, but it's sure been fun to write! I'm super happy you came back to catch up on reading. Thank you for reviewing – and don't worry, the answers to your questions will come soon. ^_^

OoO

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

From there, however, Fiona's day failed to get any better.

In fact, Fiona reflected, as she lay on her bed and stared up at the patch of moonlight crossing her ceiling, that it didn't go too well at all.

First off, her exciting announcement that she could set vampires on fire came to naught when she'd tried what Father Ellis had taught her and…nothing happened. Literally nothing. Not even the smallest, most innocuous puff of smoke appeared after the incantation.

They'd sat there for half an hour – Fiona, Elrond, Lindir, Glorfindel, and, most unfortunately, Narweth – and Fiona couldn't even make steam. And she'd been so pumped about it when they got back to the castle, which made her humiliation worse.

She let out a small groan, covering her face with her hands, feeling it heat up in the dark from embarrassment.

Was it the way she said it? Or maybe, was it the fact that she just had no magic in her system? Father Ellis was no magician or Elven healer, but he had faith. That was a kind of magic, right? Fiona had none of that.

 _Ignitamus._ Apparently it was Latin for "let's set this thing on fire". An easy phrase, one which she was certain she was pronouncing correctly – she'd checked it thoroughly with the priest. Repeatedly. To the point where Father Ellis declared in frustration that the Pope himself couldn't have been as pedantic about Latin recitation.

Yet she still hadn't been able to say it. She could have sworn Narweth's lips were curled into a contemptuous smirk out of the corner of her eye, though it might have just been her own mind messing with her.

Fiona rolled over and stared out of her window, whose blinds she'd left undone so that she could fall asleep to the light of the stars. (Which, she admitted, was a pretty sentimental notion, but she didn't care right now. If she was going to hang out in a castle for a while, she might as well go the whole hog.)

She supposed the one good thing was that she'd tried. There really was a way to set vampires on fire – it was just that she personally couldn't do it. Not yet, anyway. Fiona resolved to try again tomorrow. Just maybe not anywhere near Narweth.

 _Although…if I get it right, maybe I can set_ her _on fire._

The sound of murmuring voices below caught her attention. Fiona frowned. The window was closed – she shouldn't have been able to hear, but she could. She chalked that up to being the Heir and having some tiny bit of Elvish blood in the system, and being in Elvish country amplified it, or something. And that made her feel slightly better about not being able to do something which Father Ellis had made look so simple.

How much Elvish blood _did_ she have in the system, anyway? She wondered as she quietly got to her feet and padded across the room. There were probably a few hundred people between Aragorn and herself, and Aragorn's own Elvish blood was pretty diluted in his time.

As unobtrusively as possible, Fiona wound the window open, shivering when the cold, still night air made contact with her face. British accents drifted up clearly:

"…supposed to do about this? Should we be investigating it?"

Glorfindel's voice.

"I think we should." That was Lindir, sounding firm. "If they're after money, we have plenty. Enough to buy the letters and their silence both, if we have to."

Letters. _Do they mean the letters that mentioned the palantír?_ She tried to jog her memory. So much had happened in three days that she'd forgotten about the letters completely. From what she recalled, they had something to do with a family who somehow stumbled across a seeing-stone, seen a few things they probably shouldn't have, and then wrote letters to each other about it.

If she wasn't misinterpreting what she was hearing, they'd been taken. Stolen from that museum they were supposed to be housed in.

"And how, precisely, are we meant to locate them?" Erestor's dry, disembodied baritone floated upwards. "These things do not simply make their way onto eBay."

"We don't need eBay," answered Lindir. "We have something more powerful."

"And what would that be?"

There was a moment's pause. "Daeron."

"Daeron?" echoed Erestor. Fiona could imagine his thick eyebrows shooting upwards.

"Yes, Daeron. He has incredible talent. If anyone can find the letters, he can." Lindir's voice was full of stubborn confidence. Fiona couldn't help but admire it, even though she was kind of on Erestor's side on this one. _Last time I saw Daeron, I didn't think he was crazy, exactly, but I don't know if I'd be involving him in this._

Erestor, in response to Lindir's vote of confidence, gave a snort.

"No, no – I think he's onto something," interjected Glorfindel. "Remember that time he hacked the system and played _Bohemian Rhapsody_ on the grounds at Buckingham Palace just for kicks? I remember the hashtag was #queengotplayed. Twitter loved it."

"Yes, but we're not talking about blasting bloody _Queen_ at Buckingham Palace, are we? We're talking about tracing a number of stolen artefacts through the black market, and the most hidden part of the market at that, where only bidders with deep pockets and dubious characters will possibly have access."

"But _we_ have deep pockets," Glorfindel objected.

"And we're shady enough," added Lindir. "We're Elves masquerading as humans and hiding behind an ancient Elven spell-woven fence so that Google Earth can't see where we live."

"Good point," said Glorfindel.

"And if Daeron can't handle the pressure?" Erestor sounded annoyed. "What then?"

"Then we will detect that long before he gets to breaking point," answered Lindir. "Daeron himself will be vocal enough about it."

A quiet moment passed. Fiona found herself holding her breath.

"Fine." She could almost see Erestor throwing his hands up in exasperation. "Whatever you say. Just make sure Elrond is involved. Right from the very beginning, alright?"

Lindir sighed, sounding equally frustrated. "Obviously," he said flatly, "everything is going to be above board. I'm not willing to jeopardise or hurt anyone, especially not Daeron."

"Thankfully, that decision does not rest with you, or with any of us," answered Erestor. "We can come up with ideas all we want to, but Elrond has the final word on all these matters. And if—"

The voices of all three Elves cut out abruptly as a door downstairs wailed open and slammed shut behind them, leaving Fiona pressed uselessly against the wall. Annoyed, she stood up and wound the old window shut again.

 _Okay_. She tucked her hands into her armpits and paced up and down in front of the fire. _So the palantír letters somehow ended up on the black market, and they want Daeron to find them. But why? Is Daeron some sort of deep web genius?_

Fiona paused in her pacing. Actually, that wasn't impossible. She remembered all the #queengotplayed videos from a couple of years ago and all these gifs of the Queen looking unamused with the word "BISMILLAH" underneath. She couldn't help laughing. _Gods. Was an Elf seriously responsible for that?_

She crawled back into bed after a while and watched the stars beyond her window. They blinked at her, both brighter and colder than she'd known in her own country, far away from her now.

Fiona decided in that moment that if the Elves were going to find the letters, then she would do her best to help.

And then, she added to herself, closing her eyes, maybe later she could work on setting fire to stuff.

OoO

Elrond was in the downstairs library when Fiona made her way beneath its medieval arched entrance and across the walkway that hung over it the next day. He was standing there at the window looking all regal and didn't turn his head when he greeted her with, " _Mae govannen,_ granddaughter _._ "

Fiona halted. " _Mae govannen_ , he who speaks dramatically without looking at people."

Oh gods. Did she really just say that?

Elrond turned his head, amused. "I'm sorry. Does that frighten you?"

"Not exactly. It's just a bit…villain-esque."

Elrond smiled and held out an arm, as if welcoming her to his fancy window, and she stepped closer. Today was much more overcast, yesterday's sun gone, and given the chill in the library she figured it was probably pretty cold outside. But it was a bright kind of overcast, with the vivid green of the hills and the brown and grey stones of the older end of the castle as stark and solemn as a British postcard.

"You must not worry about yesterday," Elrond said suddenly. On Fiona's questioning look, he elaborated. "The old fire enchantment you attempted. Even in darker times, the Eldar would only use such things sparingly."

"The Professor didn't really mention a lot about Elvish non-magic, so I was surprised it was even a thing."

"Glorfindel skimmed over the details of Elvish arts when he informed Tolkien of the lost history of the world. There is some information which really doesn't belong in the hands of Mortals. Not because the Mortal race is less capable," Elrond hastened to correct, which made Fiona realise that she hadn't done a great job of hiding what she was thinking, "but because such arts are not meant to be widely practised – even by the Elves."

Satisfied that Elrond was not having a go at the Mortal race in general, Fiona swallowed back the peevish comment she'd been about to make. Up to this point, she had no proof that she wasn't still Mortal herself, after all, and she found herself feeling slightly defensive.

"So not all the Elves knew – or know – how to do this stuff?" was what she said out loud.

Elrond shook his head. "Being immortal does not instantly infuse knowledge of enchantments. Only those who are called to it are generally able to use it."

"Even if one who _is_ called happens to be a Mortal Roman Catholic priest? Because Father Ellis doesn't exactly fit the bill."

"On the contrary, his faith makes him a good conduit for such power."

"And," Fiona conceded, "I guess at least you know whose side he's on. I get it – it would be a bad idea if actual rituals or enchantments or whatever got published and people started getting into it. Imagine muggers who could set you on fire if you didn't hand over your purse."

Elrond nodded, emphatically. "Precisely. Thanks to the first Dark Enemy, uncounted ages ago, we already have enough chaos as it is without crime taking on a paranormal dimension."

Fiona didn't respond. The cold of the castle was a damp one – it seemed to soak right through her clothing and skin to rattle her bones. She shivered.

"Are you cold?" asked Elrond.

"Um, a little." A lot.

"Here, then."

Elrond shimmied one arm out of his enormous robe and draped it over her shoulder. Grateful for the warmth, Fiona snuggled into the robe.

Neither of them made any move closer to one another, but neither did they try to move away. Fiona figured this was probably about as close as she was going to get to her grandfather. _He's not exactly the warm and fuzzy type. But he is pretty awesome, so I'll settle for that._

Just at that moment, however, Elrond chose to bend down and kiss the top of Fiona's head. She nearly jumped and slammed her head into his chin.

And Elrond actually laughed.

"My apologies," he said. "I suppose a warning would have been in order."

"I think that would have made it more awkward, actually." Fiona looked up and returned his grin.

Footsteps woodenly echoing on the floor above them made Elrond turn his head. Reluctantly, Fiona followed his gaze. Leaning over the wooden, ivy leaf carved balustrade over their heads, Glorfindel was waving at them sheepishly.

"Sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I do believe we're meant to be having an audience of sorts in five minutes in the board room."

"Indeed," said Elrond distractedly. "We will be there shortly."

Glorfindel stared down at them for a moment, then coughed awkwardly. "Oh. Right. Well, I shall see you soon." He smiled at Fiona and vanished back through the walkway.

Elrond was gone from her side, leaving the cold to seep through Fiona's woefully inadequate pajamas again. Only for a moment, though – the next thing she knew, he'd taken off the whole robe and dumped it all on top of her. Gratefully, she scrambled into it.

"We should probably make our way to the board room," said Elrond, watching in amusement as Fiona flapped her arms into the sleeves, which hung off her ridiculously.

"We?" she asked, pausing in surprise.

Elrond gave her a weird look. "Of course. Did I not say that you are to have a hand in our affairs? Mortal or Elven, you are one of us now."

Fiona realised that her grandfather – or anyone else here – could remind her that they actually cared about her opinion a thousand times and she would probably still keep forgetting.

The board room was in the other library – the one that was _only_ two hundred years old – and was less a room and more just a large space with a long table. Though it was overcast, the windows were still large enough to let light in, and thankfully modern heating made it warm enough for Fiona's tastes.

Daeron's dark hair was visible from the door – as were his feet, which were propped up irreverently on the table. Clearly bored, his eyes wandered around the ceiling, and his fingers were drumming out patterns against his knee.

Lindir was leaning casually against the table, arms folded and shirt rolled up to his elbows, when Fiona entered flapping in Elrond's wake and wearing his robe. His eyebrows went up, but he smiled, and her heart did that funny little flutter that it seemed to be doing around him increasingly more often of late.

Though now she didn't know whether it was because he frightened her after yesterday's revelations, or whether it was…something else that she didn't want to admit to.

Without meaning to, she found herself drifting to Lindir's side. The robe took up considerable space, given Fiona was bundled in it like one of Dmitri's audition candidates in that movie (minus the fur, and she wasn't going to drop the robe and rasp, _Grandma, it's me – Anastasia_ – though she might have if it were just her and Mackenzie). It gave her an excuse to stand as close as she could without her skin touching his.

And the fact that she was even thinking about any of this made her feel very weird.

The other Elves drifted in, taking seats around the table, and Fiona realised that this meeting was going to be bigger than she'd expected.

"I thought it was just going to be you guys and Elrond," she muttered, half to Lindir, mostly into Elrond's robes.

Lindir's surprise was palpable, and gave way to a frown. "What—how did you…" He trailed off.

 _Oh._ Now she was going to have to explain that she'd been eavesdropping at her window last night. "Um, well—"

"If we could all be seated," Elrond's voice interrupted, mercifully, "then we can discuss the business of the morning. Something which concerns our future, both as the company of Mensa Rotunda, and as Elves who remain in Middle-Earth."

Those who were standing, including Fiona and Lindir, took their places. Legolas sat across from Fiona, looking young and mischievous and even winking at her as he pulled his chair back in.

That was yet another one of the weird things Fiona found herself having to adjust to. It wasn't just Legolas who looked young. Everyone did. Aside from Elrond, not one person there looked older than 28. If it weren't for the eyes, that is. Their eyes betrayed the long memory of Elven history.

 _It's not likely,_ thought Fiona, _but if I end up being immortal, I'll eventually end up with eyes like that._ It was a scary thought.

In the meantime, Elrond had neatly zipped away all signs of his grandfatherly side and was all business now, hands clasped and resting on the table, making eye contact very seriously with each one as he spoke.

"It has been proposed," he said solemnly, "that in the wake of several artefacts having been stolen, we now attempt to retrieve them via locating the thief and offering an attractive price for the items."

"What artefacts?" demanded Narweth.

Fiona felt ever so slightly smug that she knew something that Narweth didn't.

"The Kent letters. Someone else has them."

There was an explosion of exclamations and murmurs. All from Elves who clearly hadn't been in on Lindir, Erestor and Glorfindel's little midnight meeting, of course.

Elrond took a deep breath. "What we are attempting to do will hardly be legal. Nor will it be easy. But the Kent letters are one of the only leads we have on the _palantír_."

"I think we should do it."

Everyone stopped talking. Everyone's heads swivelled in one direction. Daeron had removed his feet from the table and, ignoring everyone else, leaned forward and levelled a calm stare at Elrond.

A furrow appeared between Elrond's thick, Matrix-esque eyebrows. "What did you say?"

"I think we should do it."

"You have not heard the proposal yet."

"I don't need to." Daeron's hands came to rest behind his head. "You're going to go through the black market. So you need someone good with computers, and someone good at finding lost things. Luckily for you, I am both of those things."

Silence fell upon the entire company. Fiona held her breath. Legolas, after a moment, gave a cough.

"Daeron," he said gently. "You are absolutely right. You are good at those things. And I have no doubt that you'll smash it out of the park if you undertake this. But given some recent events, wouldn't – that is—"

"I know," interrupted Daeron flatly, "that you all think I'm mad. Mental. Bonkers. Round the bend. That I never got over—that I…" He gave a long exhale, releasing the fist he'd made and splaying his fingers against the hard wood of the table. "But the fact is that I'm not as fragile as you all think me. I am _older,_ " he said, louder when Narweth opened her mouth to protest, "than all of you, Glorfindel excepted. Do you not think that if I were even _half_ my age, I'd be little more than a gibbering mess by now?"

He was on his feet, the chair nearly knocked backwards. "I am of Elu Thingol's people. Wise in word and song, and the whole bloody internet if I have to be. And whether or not any of you believe it, I am still perfectly capable of doing more than hanging upside down in the library and composing sad symphonies."

Glorfindel glanced away guiltily. That story was one of the first things Fiona had ever heard about Daeron.

Daeron leaned forward on the table with both hands. Fiona's heart was almost in her throat as he glared down Elrond, who looked back with a lot more calm than she would have felt in his shoes.

"Just tell me where the letters were last seen," he said, "and I'll find whoever's got them before you can say _Ainulindalë_."

Elrond cut to the chase. "Then let's put that to the vote. All in favour of Daeron undertaking this mission?"

Five out of eight hands went up. Erestor looked pained, Narweth's jaw was set, and Fiona was looking around at everyone else, uncertain of what to do.

"Granddaughter?" Elrond's voice had softened a bit, as had his gaze when his eyes settled on her. "You are allowed to vote also."

Fiona blinked. "What?"

"All Heirs of Aragorn and the Evenstar have been traditionally granted a place on the board of Mensa Rotunda and have been offered the choice to be a part of New Imladris' affairs. And you are now a part of this mission to recover the _palantír_. You are allowed to vote."

Fiona glanced at Daeron. He looked back at her, his stance lazy but his eyes beneath raised eyebrows issuing a bold challenge.

And in that very weird moment, while he was silently defying her to say that he couldn't do it, she understood that her vote mattered to Daeron.

Because she was Lúthien's Heir, and even though untold years lay between the time he first fell in love with her as a young Elf and now, he wasn't seeing Fiona standing there. He was seeing Lúthien. He wanted to know that she would stand up for him.

In his head, they were standing ten thousand years ago, in a court all made of carved stone and ivy and fountains. He was looking to his friend, the king's daughter, standing by the throne, to back up some proposal he'd made, and knowing without hesitation that she'd do it because they were friends.

Fiona shrugged. "Well, I see no problem with it." She turned to Daeron, her chin tilted up in answer to his challenge. "If you say that you're up to finding this guy, then go for it." She looked directly at Elrond. "My vote is yes."

To say that Daeron looked taken aback would have been the understatement of the year.

Narweth curled her lip as she turned to Fiona. "And just what would you know about it?"

"Oh, shut it, Narweth," Erestor snapped.

"Both of you stop it!" Elrond's fist crashed down onto the table, making everyone jump. "We have a majority vote, so the matter is decided either way. And you two," he said angrily, looking from Narweth to Erestor, "need to cease this puerile bickering. I have had enough."

"But—" began Narweth.

"And while debate in our circle is certainly welcome, I will not have you speaking to the Heir of Lúthien and my granddaughter like that." Elrond's eyes were fire, his jaw set.

Narweth crossed her arms sulkily. "Fine." She slowly turned, green eyes fixing themselves upon Fiona. "My apologies, King's Daughter."

"Uh, yeah. All good." Rattled by all the yelling, Fiona had to loosen her grip on the undersides of her chair.

But she found the words spilling out of her before she even thought them.

"Look," she said. "I know I'm young, and I know I have a lot to learn about our history and Mensa Rotunda as a company. That said," and she narrowed her eyes at Narweth, "I'm not entirely stupid. And unless my opinions are grossly misinformed, if I say something, I'm sticking by it."

All eyes were on her, and she gazed back at each Elf in turn as her grandfather had done. The shock on Narweth's face was worth it. _I'm not going to keep on looking weak in front of these people any longer._

"I like her," Daeron declared, the first to break the silence. "Now, can we get to it? I haven't even had my morning coffee yet thanks to you lot."

Elrond seemed to have calmed back down. "Certainly. Do you think you can do it within the hour? As a matter of urgency."

Daeron shrugged as he tied his messy hair back into a tail. "Challenge accepted. Five minutes for my coffee, then it's as good as done."

"Then it's settled." Elrond rose, and everyone else hurried to their feet. "We meet again one hour from now to decide what to do."

* * *

 _A/N: Finally an update! I hope you guys have had a great start to the year. Thank you for your awesome reviews - keep your suggestions and comments coming!_


	18. Chapter 18

**Anonymous review replies**

Cedarlight: Thanks! Honestly, this is heading in all kinds of crazy directions and even I'm not completely sure of where it's headed aside from a few vague details. But I'm glad you're enjoying it so far. Thanks for reviewing!

David: Thank you! I hope you made it past the first chapter after that and didn't find it terrible. :P Thanks for reviewing.

Brandywine: Believe me, the vampires and the seeing-stone are definitely linked! It's just taking a while for the whole story to come out. Ooh, Tom Bombadil and Radagast…there's a thought. I'll have to have a think about that one. Thank you for reading and reviewing!

* * *

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Everyone dispersed at that point, Glorfindel to go and chatter to anyone who looked like they were up for it, Daeron almost definitely in search of coffee. Fiona was going to go and fire off a message or two to Mackenzie at home when Lindir, who was still standing next to her, hesitated a moment and said, almost uncertainly, "Fiona?"

He'd said her name again, instead of calling her King's Daughter like he usually did. It always made her feel all fluttery inside.

She turned around and swallowed. "Yeah?"

He spread his hands. "I don't think I'll have anything to teach you about being honest after today." A smile spread across his face. "Congratulations."

Fiona laughed when he shook her hand in a gesture of mock solemnity, his face theatrically serious. "Yeah, well, I may have been told to be honest more than once. Besides," she added, lowering her voice, "Narweth was seriously starting to piss me off."

Lindir bent his head towards her, and Fiona felt a thrill running through her.

"I know Narweth can be difficult to deal with," he said quietly. "But like all of us she has her reasons for being the way she is."

"Okay," she said skeptically. "But I haven't done anything to her – aside from being too young, apparently. If she's going to look at me all snobby or shoot down everything I say then she has to expect that I'm not going to just take it anymore." _Even if she's ridiculously attractive and intimidating._

When she next looked up, she noticed – her heart skipping a beat in a truly clichéd manner – that Lindir had the same look on his face that he'd had when he'd been about to kiss her. Sort of affectionate, sort of proud of her, and sort of something else that she couldn't quite read. This time, when Lindir's fingers curled around hers, she held onto them.

"You know," he said, "whether your life ends up being a mortal one or the life of one of the Eldar, it will be a good one, I think."

Fiona seriously hoped he couldn't feel the adrenaline coursing under her skin. "Slightly intense conversation to be having in my granddad's library."

"I know. But it was something that needed to be said. I need you to keep being honest, King's Daughter, and courageous. This may sound selfish, but seeing you continue to grow makes me appreciate how worthwhile it is to have been a friend and helper to Aragorn's children. Not just that, though – it makes me realise how fortunate I am to be _your_ friend."

A squeeze of her hand and he was gone, traipsing off in Glorfindel's direction. Glorfindel, Fiona saw, was sprawled in a chair with a velvet back and loudly complaining that there should be wine. He waved Erestor off when the darker Elf bluntly pointed out that it was hardly 11 in the morning.

The feel of Lindir's touch lingering against her fingers, Fiona tried to shake off all the mushy feelings she was getting and made her way into the main hall with its intimidatingly high ceiling and wooden arches and the omnipresent ivy patterns.

"I'm never going to get tired of this," she murmured to herself. Despite the castle's sprawling grounds, its ancient feel – even its weirdly talking door – she was starting to feel at home. Like she could live here happily for a long time.

Maybe even forever.

As she paced aimlessly around the hall, listening to her own footfalls, her mind began to ponder the morning's events.

Thinking about it now, she didn't exactly regret voting for Daeron – especially because it meant that she'd apparently won herself some respect – but at the same time…had it been right of her to vote for him just to annoy Narweth? Just the other day she'd heard him yelling at Elrond loudly enough that she could hear it from the front entrance to the castle. All she'd seen of him since then was a calm, if cynical, version of himself. But…

Fiona suddenly doubted whether it was such a good idea to put the famed minstrel of Doriath under pressure to go and locate the Kent letters right now when she knew that he'd once thought her mum was a child Lúthien and just taken off with her into the woods.

But she hadn't voted just to annoy Narweth. She'd seen Daeron as he must have been, thousands of years ago, the young court musician he had been to King Thingol, and the hope that as the descendant of the woman he'd once loved she would support his decisions.

Low voices from the next room distracted her. Quietly, she padded towards the reception room, and halted abruptly when she found Daeron and Narweth standing there with their backs turned towards her. She ducked behind the wall so neither of them would see her.

But she could see them, and what she saw wasn't what she expected.

"You should go and get to work, then," Narweth was saying, folding her slender arms over her chest.

"I will," answered Daeron, taking a sip of his coffee. He shrugged. "But you said you wanted to talk, so…"

"I have said all I needed to say. You know that I didn't vote against your doing this because I doubted your abilities."

"You only doubted my sanity." Daeron turned to her, and Fiona caught sight of his pained, angry face. "Even though I've given you no reason to."

"No reason?" Narweth stepped closer, glaring up into his eyes. "No reason? You locked yourself in Elrond's study for three days straight refusing food and drinking nothing but coffee."

"I require solitude if I am to make art."

"You shouted at him loudly enough that even that little chit of a King's Heir heard you!"

"I happen to like her," said Daeron flatly, and Fiona inwardly cheered. "At least she isn't full of—"

"Daeron, please." Narweth's voice was full of something Fiona had never heard in it before. Pleading. All the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Her voice cracked. "I simply do not wish to see you broken. Again. When you have already come so far."

The mug in Daeron's hand went onto the wooden table next to them. Fiona had this weird feeling that she shouldn't be listening in, but if she walked away now her curiosity would burn her up from the inside. Especially since some sort of drama was going down right in front of her.

Daeron took a deep breath through his nose, evidently trying to calm down. "I am not broken. I never have been," he said, with forced patience. "Perhaps it is true that occasionally my mind strays elsewhere. To another time, another place. I see things unfolding before me that are only memory now. But that does not mean that I can't navigate the black market in the hour Elrond has given me. It's a simple enough task."

"But what if—"

"For the sake of the Valar, Narweth," sighed Daeron, tiredly. "If anything goes wrong, then I have Elrond. And I have—" He paused, uncertain. "I have you."

 _Wait, what?_ Fiona's eyes widened.

Narweth's own eyes were narrowed at Daeron. "Fine. Do what you want. The council voted, and you're determined to do it, so go. But if anything—"

"Shut up, _meleth_." Daeron took a step forward and then it was chaos as they collided into one another like some invisible power was yanking them together. She was gripping onto his shirt-front, mouth meeting his hungrily as she pushed back; Daeron bumped into the table on his way past, nearly sending the precariously-perched coffee flying.

 _Oh gods._ Red-faced, Fiona backed away and, grimacing, ran on tiptoes all the way back into the main hall and towards the library. _I can't even._

She reached for her phone for a distraction as she headed back. _Cannot unsee_. Daeron and Narweth? The purportedly crazed musician and the all-business ice queen? That she didn't see coming.

 _Is that the reason Narweth and Erestor have some sort of beef going on?_ Fiona wondered suddenly. There was always a palpable tension between those two. _I mean, maybe it's not. But these Elves and their drama…_

When she reached the library, she scanned the area. Lindir and Glorfindel were talking in a corner. Erestor and Elrond were seated at the board table in whispered discussion. Legolas wandered in at that moment and brushed past her with a cup of tea, turning and bestowing one of his handsome smiles on her.

 _Ah._ Fiona smiled back. If there was anyone in this room not likely to have second thoughts about sharing the gossip, it was probably Legolas Thranduillion.

A pang of guilt twisted Fiona's stomach, but she decided food would probably settle it later.

"Hi," she said, a little pathetically. Legolas didn't care. He turned around and leaned against the wall next to her, standing so close that she could inhale his scent.

"Well, hi to you too," he said, then took a sip of his tea, his blue eyes never leaving hers. Her heart nearly stopped in her chest. _Gods._ Fiona had to wonder just how many hearts Legolas had broken back in Mirkwood, or over recent centuries. "Congratulations on what you just did back there."

"Thanks."

"Narweth isn't an easy one to deal with on the best of days."

"Speaking of Narweth." Fiona turned slightly, her shoulder nearly bumping Legolas', they were standing so close. "This is driving me insane. What is up with her and Erestor? I tried to ask Lindir, but he wouldn't tell me. I mean, we were in a public place at the time, and we were sitting right across from them, but still."

"Ah. That is a long tale indeed, but not one known to many. Including myself, unfortunately." He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "Neither Erestor nor Narweth have confided in anyone, but it's an unspoken fact that they were in love once. A long time ago."

"…What?" _I was right!_

Legolas nodded. "Something went sour, and while I wouldn't quite say they're enemies, they are definitely not friends. They've squabbled for so long that everyone's probably forgotten what they once were to each other. Including themselves."

"Wow. That kind of explains why Narweth's so…Narweth."

"Actually, Narweth's pretty much always been like that," said Legolas with a grin. "Her name says she is full of fire, and she truly is. She might've met her match today, though." He winked down at her.

Fiona sighed. "I didn't do much. I just spoke my mind and gave my vote because her high-and-mighty attitude was annoying me. If I had to stand up for myself a second time I'd probably have trouble doing it."

"That isn't the point, Fiona. The fact is that you finally threw all caution to the winds and did something that you thought was right. That matters."

Daeron's allotted time passed and everyone gathered once again at the table. Narweth when she entered the room was the very picture of grace and poise, as though she hadn't just been making out with an Elvish computer/music genius against a wall like a teenager fifty minutes ago, with no details changed – except for the fact that she was now wearing a demure vintage neck scarf that went perfectly with her red hair. It parted just slightly as she took her seat, and Fiona was sure she was possibly the only one to have seen the mark there.

 _Is that…a hickey?_

In the meantime, Daeron wasn't dramatic about his deep web work. "Done," he said, turning his tablet for Elrond to see. Fiona craned her neck but couldn't catch a glimpse of the screen. "The Kent letters are being held by someone at Oxford University. The seller's willing to negotiate a decent price."

A few murmurs and raised eyebrows.

"Oxford?" Elrond's eyebrows drew downwards in puzzlement. "What kind of person is the seller?"

"At a guess? I would wager a staff member."

"Really?" asked Legolas, puzzled. "Why would someone on the faculty of one of the world's most prestigious universities steal a bunch of letters?"

Daeron shrugged. "Money issues, probably. Obviously he is not willing to disclose exact details, but I've been doing this for long enough that I have a good idea. That said," Daeron added, looking around the table, "he hinted that he has a good idea of who I am, too."

The murmuring rose to shocked exclamations. Fiona felt all the blood freeze in her veins.

"No need to panic, though," said Daeron, refusing to raise his voice even an iota. Everyone was forced to stop talking to hear him. "I threatened him so thoroughly that he isn't likely to let slip even the slightest hint to anyone else that we exist."

"What'd you say to him?" It was Glorfindel of course, leaning forward curiously.

"That I would personally see to it that his own fingers would be fed to him one by one." Daeron's stare was unblinking.

Fiona nearly laughed, except everyone had gone quiet. She closed her mouth. He actually meant it.

"Alright." To her surprise, Lindir spoke. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him shift in his seat. "I suggest that at least two of us go to pick up the letters, and that we have a third for backup in case things go sour."

"I agree," said Elrond. "Lindir, are you willing to be one of the party?"

"Of course."

"I volunteer as tribute," said Legolas so seriously that Fiona was sure the reference was lost on everyone except for her. His blue eyes sparkled when they landed on her.

"I'll go," said Erestor gruffly. "If only to keep these two from leaving the letters in some club."

Legolas' hand fluttered to his heart as if he were deeply offended, and Lindir smiled and shrugged at Fiona when she looked at him.

"I want to go." The words popped out of Fiona before her brain had even registered them.

Silence fell. Heads swivelled around to look at her. Nervousness made her heart hammer and her pulse dance under her skin but she held her ground. Legolas gave a single, slow nod of appreciation and Lindir's hand came to rest on hers under the table.

This was an insane opportunity. Seeing Oxford wouldn't just be a historical experience – she would be helping in some way. Her way of helping so far had been limited to a) taking the wheel – literally – and b) seeing a priest, and she knew that in all honesty she probably hadn't been that useful.

But a few days ago she wouldn't have even been able to do that much. She began to wonder whether this was what Aragorn had felt like when he first started his own training. Whether he'd felt useless at the beginning but just kept pushing at the door of his fate, cracking it open only slightly and then gaining strength as he went until the full light of day poured in.

She needed to start somewhere. He was going to let her go. He had to.

She was completely unprepared for the answer.

"Out of the question."

Elrond spoke with such forceful finality that she felt her jaw dropping open.

"Wait, what?" she whispered.

"It will not be safe for you to go. This is of paramount importance - the others will not be able to guarantee your safety, nor will they have the time for it."

Fiona felt the colour draining from her face. That couldn't just be it. "I don't need babysitting," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I promise the last thing I'll do is get in the way."

"No."

That was it. _No._ His mouth was set in a thin line; there was no room for discussion. It was such a sharp contrast to the Elrond she had met the first night she was here - the one who told her gently that she was free to make her own choices, that she was part of the family.

"But... _daeradar_ —"

"The answer," said Elrond coldly, "is no. The three of you," he said, turning away while even Narweth shot her a look of what Fiona thought may have been pity, "can arrange to go to Oxford by tomorrow, I hope."

Fiona's hand was left cold when Lindir gave a cough and took his hand away. "I'm sure we can."

"Good. Daeron, if you feel up to it, I want for you to ensure the area is monitored and any security footage of the exchange permanently removed. If this seller does know us as he claims to, we are in enough trouble as it is."

Fiona hardly heard what was going on. She was feeling an uncomfortable, foreign surge of something rising in the pit of her stomach. Without seeing her reflection she knew that her face was tightening.

Everything - the Elves, her parents hiding everything from her, the vampire who nearly killed her, the car chase, the talking doors, the fact that her own grandfather had shut her down in front of everyone - was finally catching up with her.

Her Elvish grandfather saw her face. He didn't look pleased. "Is something the matter?"

"Can I have a word?" Fiona's voice sounded unfamiliar to her own ears. It was coming out strained, like it was pulling a taut, invisible leash. "In private?"

The one sane corner of her had begun to realise she was going to lose it and wanted everyone out of the room before that happened. _What's wrong with me?_ She thought frantically, before that last bit of logic was lost in the tide of overwhelming anger that seemed to be coming out of nowhere.

Elrond paused a moment, his frown bordering on a scowl, then said, "Very well. This meeting is adjourned. When we have more information we will convene once more."

There was something like a polite, tightly-controlled stampede as the other Elves seemed to nearly trip over themselves to get out of there. Adrenaline was coursing through Fiona's veins as she and her grandfather watched them all leave the room. When Elrond finally rounded on her, she realised he was struggling to keep his own temper under control.

"Well?" Fiona was taken aback by his harsh tone - a tone he had never used on her before. And the fact that he was talking to her like that sent a renewed surge through her chest.

She took a deep breath. "I don't like what you did back there." Her heart was pounding in her ears.

"I am sorry that you're disappointed." He didn't sound sorry.

She shook her head violently. "No. No, not just that - the fact that you treated me like a child in front of - of all these Elves."

"You _are_ a child!" he snapped. Fiona took a step back involuntarily, but her jaw was set so hard that her head ached. "You are my child. My grandchild. This is a new threat - this threat of being discovered by someone who may know who and what we are. I can't have you in danger on a whim."

"I want to go." She ground out the words.

"For heaven's sake—"

"Okay, I'm just, you know, trying to get this straight." Fiona was quivering. "You keep secrets from me all my life, right, then apologise for doing that, then tell me I can get as involved as much or as little as I like with the family and the _palantír_. That the decision was mine to make." Her fingers were twitching at her sides. They balled up when she got angry and it was all she could do to fight it all back down. "Well, I'm getting involved. _That's_ my decision."

His eyes darkened. "I should have thought it unnecessary to stipulate that your power over your decisions ends at the moment your safety may be compromised."

There was a harsh bark of laughter. It was coming from Fiona, who didn't care right now that Lord Elrond's voice was dangerously cold. "My safety?" she echoed. "Where the hell was my safety when a bunch of vampires chased us halfway across Wales? You couldn't drop work for one moment to meet your own granddaughter and not once did you actually check to see if I was alright. A vampire _attacked_ me. Just jumped out at me. I could have been killed."

Elrond froze, startled. Internally, Fiona was scrambling to stop the words but they just kept tumbling out. Over and over.

"Yeah. That's right. I could have died because you weren't careful enough, but now that I want to do something for myself you won't let me go anywhere. And if that vampire didn't finish me off, I could have gotten myself and Lindir killed because I had to drive a fucking Range Rover down a hill. Because you weren't there."

Tears were beginning to blur her vision. Elrond stood frozen with shock, mouth open. She was being unreasonable. Childish. She knew it. But she couldn't stop.

"Fiona…" Elrond spoke in a completely different tone, stepping towards her with his hands out. Like he was desperately reaching for something he was about to lose. Fiona's heart was in her throat. All the fight drained out of her. She couldn't see him like this. She couldn't look at him and know that the wretchedness on his face was her fault.

So she wordlessly turned on her heel and left, tears streaming down her face while she cursed the meeting and Daeron and Elrond and the letters and everything she'd said and done today. She'd just yelled at an Elf-lord; not just a character from a book, but her own blood. Someone who might even grow to love her. She'd destroyed everything in one ill-judged moment. She wished fruitlessly that she could just rewind it and start again and not get out of bed until it was all over.

Out into the cold Welsh weather she went with a gasp, past the whispering front doors, the red scarf wrapped around her as she wandered without knowing where she was going, the air hitting her like a slap in the face. One which she deserved, she knew, and that knowledge just made her weep all the more; weep soundlessly until she thought the tears would never stop coming.

 **END OF PART I**

* * *

 _A/N: Trying for semi-regular updates here and probably failing miserably! Not going to lie, this was an emotional chapter to write, so it did take me a while._

 _Bit of context: Fiona may seem like she's massively overreacting - and she is - but trauma can impact on people in various ways, including making them seem like they've suddenly switched personalities. This is why she might look like she's not quite herself right now._

 _Random fact: my predictive text has finally stopped correcting 'Daeron' to 'Dickbag' when I go to write fanfiction on my phone._

 _Many hugs and thank yous for your reviews! :)_


	19. PART II - Chapter 19

**A/N:**

Wow. My apologies for this horribly late update. Between writer's block and changing jobs and all sorts of stuff this chapter got lost for a bit. This chapter hasn't undergone a lot of editing either, so I may have to go back and tweak a bit. I was just too excited to get this out to you guys!

So today marks the beginning of Part II, which is super exciting. Please enjoy! :)

 _ **The road so far…**_

(Again, stolen from Supernatural, sorry not sorry.)

 _Fiona Lockwood, history student and Heir of Elessar, bumps into the musician Lindir of old Rivendell by accident and discovers an entire world full of Elves and other less nice creatures creeping out of Middle-Earth's history. Invited by Master Elrond Peredhel himself to meet the Elvish side of her family, she goes to Wales and learns that doors can talk, vampires exist, and yes, they can drive._

 _One palantir is known to survive in the modern world, and the Elves want to find it before darker creatures do. Fiona finds herself with a whole lot of choices to make as to how involved she gets with their mission to recover the lost seeing-stone, and explores the new Rivendell Elrond has built on the remains of old Lindon. Elvish drama unfolds as she learns of Lindir's dark past as a torturer, stumbles across an unexpected Elvish romance between Daeron and sullen Narweth, and winds up in an altercation with Elrond when he refuses to let her travel to Oxford on their quest…_

OoO

 **Guest review replies**

Vanime: Yep, Fiona's maturity kind of took a nose-dive there! But at the same token, Elrond made her a promise, and in this story Elves take their word very seriously.

I kind of liked the idea too! That particular aspect of the story might not surface for a while depending on how things progress, but the question of her mortality is a big one. I don't think her and Elrond's relationship is going to be in disrepair for too long – after all, he is a healer. :)

Thank you for reviewing! :)

Diarona: Haha! Sorry about the wait. :P I'm glad that you're enjoying the story enough to leave me reviews telling me to hurry up. :P

Inconnu: I'm glad you liked that bit! Legolas is a bit of a gossip. :P That feeling when you burst out laughing in a public place = relatable. Yep, both Elrond and Fiona have a point – ultimately, Fiona is an adult, and Elrond made her a promise. Fiona and Lindir do have a bit of spark happening, but no one has admitted any feelings yet. Thanks so much for reviewing!

OoO

 **PART II**

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Fiona wandered blindly until the castle fell behind and she came to a stone bench with unfamiliar carvings on it – and who knew how long it had been there – which sat at the lip of the valley, overlooking the wooded hills.

Everything was ruined. Everything. Elrond would never trust her again. The rest of her stay would be endured in stilted silence. She'd be sent back to Melbourne, back to her old life. Back to the Mortal world where she'd keep struggling to keep up her rent and live off glorified ramen and hack away at assignments. A world without magic. A world she would hardly recognise as her own. Her eyes prickled and she wept again, this time dissolving into sobs. It was her fault, all her fault.

Time passed outside the strange bubble she found herself in. Her tears dried, her mind senselessly replayed the morning then faded away until she was left just staring out at the grey sky and the trees and the old path that wound down into the valley. Numb, behind a curtain as grey as the clouds.

She didn't know how long she'd sat there for, but the sound of soft footsteps rustling through the grass behind her woke her from her dull reverie.

"I just wanted to help," she said quietly, not caring who it was. "Not that I really know how I'm supposed to do that. I just thought that, you know, since I've been starting to woman up and whatever…" She shook her head and rested her chin in her hands. "I just yelled at Lord Elrond of Imladris like an idiot. He's never going to trust me again."

"I'm sure that's not true," said Lindir, coming to sit next to her on the stone bench. Fiona risked a glance at him. His face, all hard angles and Elven beauty, was full of concern, brows drawn together. Something sparked in her numbness and she had to look away before she started crying again. "Your grandfather loves you. He was only trying to protect you – and he knows that he can overdo it sometimes."

"Yeah, but didn't I overdo it too just then? I don't – I don't even know why I reacted like that."

"Because," answered Lindir quietly, "no one is so perfect that they can go through everything you've been through in the last few days and not be affected by it."

Fiona gritted her teeth against the prickling behind her eyes. "I shouldn't be affected by it. That's the whole problem. I'm supposed to be a descendant of Lúthien and Arwen and Aragorn. They had to prove themselves. So do I." She turned to face him directly then. "Glorfindel said I had a – what did he call it – a bookish exterior when he first met me. Clearly I don't look like the enterprising kind."

"You don't need to."

Fiona made a noise of frustration. He didn't get it. "I'm twenty-two years old. I've suddenly been swept into this world full of Elves who are infinitely wiser and more intelligent and more widely-read than I'm ever going to be. I need to be able to prove that I'm not just some kid who's along for the ride. I've blown that now, obviously," she added with a sigh, resting her head on her knees. Her head actually ached from weeping and now she was just tired.

Lindir said nothing, so they sat there quietly for a while. Eventually, there was a rustle of clothing catching on stone as Lindir shifted to face her.

"Elrond didn't know," he said.

"Didn't know what?" Fiona raised her head tiredly. Their knees were side-by-side, only just touching.

"About the vampires. Or – well, he did know that we'd been followed, but he didn't know that one had tried to bite you. Or that you had to take the wheel in the ensuing car chase. Or that you clipped one in the ear with a crucifix."

"He didn't know?" Fiona was sitting up now, though her arms were still wrapped around her knees. "Why? I thought he knew everything already." She narrowed her eyes. "What happened?"

Lindir gave a wry smile. "Glorfindel happened," he said. "We agreed that he was going to fill Elrond in when we got back. He only got as far as saying that we had been followed by Thuringwethil's spawn before realising that Elrond was so preoccupied with Daeron's episode when you arrived that it wouldn't have done any good. Personally, I think Glorfindel could have found a time to break the news in a way that wouldn't have caused spontaneous combustion. But he clearly forgot, because he's Glorfindel," Lindir added, rolling his eyes.

"That explains it," Fiona said slowly. "Why he didn't check on me. He didn't know how close I'd come to…whatever it was that droopy moustache guy was going to do."

Lindir nodded. "If anything, your grandfather is going to have even more belief in you now that he knows. He gave Glorfindel a decent bellowing, by the way."

"I feel bad for Glorfindel," said Fiona. "I was on the receiving end of his wrath and it wasn't great."

Lindir shrugged and smiled _._ "Glorfindel is a big Elf. He can handle himself. This may surprise you, but you're not the only King's Heir to have lost it at Elrond."

"I know my grandfather did."

Lindir shook his head. "No, not just William. Elrond's protectiveness has driven many a King's Heir to a screaming match or two – and Aragorn was no exception."

Fiona felt her eyes grow wide. "Really?"

"Really. I'm sure I've told you that before."

"Someone probably has. I don't remember." Fiona straightened up and stretched. Her spine made a few disturbing popping noises and her hip clicked. She'd probably been sitting out here for hours. She glanced back in the direction of the castle, where it was probably marginally warmer than out here. "I don't want to go back yet. Not after making such an arse of myself."

"Then let's not for a while. Would you like to be left alone?"

Fiona looked up into Lindir's earnest, dark eyes hesitantly. For the first time, she noticed the faintest dusting of freckles across his clear skin – just like the ones she had on her own face – and felt an overwhelming need to reach up and brush her fingers across them. Her hands were already in her coat pockets and she tried to stuff them deeper in so she wouldn't act on that particular thought.

 _Please stay._

"You can stay if you want," was what she said out loud, as nonchalantly as she could, despite the fact that her hands had gotten just a little sweaty. "I could do with some distraction."

Lindir tilted his head. "In all my long years I've never found distraction to be an effective way to deal with things. Pain only leaves once it has been felt."

Bloody Elves. Fiona closed her eyes. "Can we make an exception?"

"As you wish." Fiona nearly jolted, heart hammering as the first thought to cross her mind was that he was quoting _The Princess Bride_ at her. A stolen glance out of the corner of her eye told her, however, that Lindir was innocently looking out over the valley instead of sending her a lingering, meaningful look. His thick chestnut plait had wisps of hair coming out of it. "How would you like me to distract you?"

It was a terrible question. Fiona scrambled to say something that wasn't completely mortifying.

"Childhood memory?" she asked, tentatively.

"Ahh." He smiled, but it gave way quickly to a frown as his eyes darkened. "I'm afraid I don't have the best childhood stories to tell you…"

"Something non-traumatic," Fiona interjected quickly. Her guilt felt compounded. Not only had she gone and yelled at Elrond, she was upsetting Lindir, and all because she wanted to try and escape her own pain for a while.

Luckily Lindir seemed oblivious as usual. "Something non-traumatic…" He tilted his head back to the clouded sky in thought. Then he grinned. "First kiss."

Fiona was so taken aback that she forgot herself and let out a laugh. "What?"

"The first time I kissed an elleth. That was embarrassing, but not traumatic."

"You sure?"

His turn to laugh. "I'm sure. Let's see." He paused a moment. "It was Erestor's younger sister, and I was perhaps the human equivalent of sixteen."

"I never even thought of Erestor as the sort of person to have a sister."

"I think he forgets he has one half the time, too. That is, until he found us in one of the armament tents in Beleriand." He pulled a face. "I had the biggest crush on her at the time, even though she was a few years older than I. I think she took pity on me, looking back on it."

"What happened to her?"

"She nearly died. A lot of us nearly did. Orc raid." Fiona glanced up and caught just the end of a series of images that flickered in Lindir's eyes. The ones she'd seen yesterday, before she'd gone to see Father Ellis. Bloody hands. The small Elf crying, the teenaged Elf, the hatchet slamming into something over and over. Red. Screaming.

Lindir blinked, then looked down at Fiona. He gave her a reassuring smile in response to what must have been a worried look on her face. "She's fine now, as far as I know. I believe she went oversea at the end of the First Age when the Valar reopened the roads, along with many others. I think she'd had enough of Middle-Earth after all those adventures."

"I'll say."

"What about you?" Lindir's question caught her off guard and he must have seen it, because he laughed. "Any embarrassing first time stories? Feel free not to tell me if you don't want to."

Fiona opened her mouth, then closed it. "Well, I guess there was kind of an embarrassing first voyeur time—"

Lindir's face took on an expression of mock horror. "A daughter of the King, a voyeur? The scandal!"

Despite herself, Fiona smiled back, a little bit of light creeping in over the heaviness she felt still weighing on her chest. "No, nothing like that! I just – kind of stumbled on something." _Like Daeron and Narweth making out in the reception hall._ It occurred to her that she didn't know how many people knew about them, whether they were officially together or not. Something told her not. She pursed her lips and grimaced. "But I'm not at liberty to say," she said, in her best posh accent.

"Well, that's no fun. You know what might be, however?"

"What?"

"Being a rebellious stowaway," answered Lindir, looking at her sideways. "Coming with us on our trip to recover the Kent letters."

Fiona's laugh died when she saw his eyes, wide and dark in his face. "Oh. You're serious."

He nodded. "What say you?"

"Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind." Fiona paused. "I mean, I guess I'd escape having to deal with Elrond, but then we'd only have bigger problems when we got back. And I don't know, would you be able to swing it with Erestor and Glorfindel around?"

"Certainly. Glorfindel would be all for it, and Erestor would come around eventually."

"Glorfindel is all for it!" boomed a voice behind them, making Fiona jump. Turning around, she was greeted with the sight of the Balrog-slayer striding cheerily across the grass. He paused once he reached them, a look of confusion suddenly crossing his face. "Wait. What am I all for?"

"Allowing the King's Daughter to steal away with us to Oxford, of course."

Lindir's eyes were all innocence. Aside from the wink he shot Fiona.

"Ooh," said Glorfindel, eyes shining. "I rather like that plan. But I think stealing away won't be necessary." Fiona's heart nearly stopped in her chest when he turned to her with a smile. "Your grandfather is letting you go."

OoO

Breathless, Fiona threw open the side door of the dining room area, trailing in a leaf or two. A bored-looking Daeron glanced up from a book he was reading, but Fiona hardly spared him a look as she strode past the old dining table and into the main hall.

From there it was a matter of remembering where the downstairs library was. _That weird sloping floor. Where is that?_ She breezed past the first library and found herself in that wide hallway with the twisted staircase leading into one of the towers ahead.

To the left was the arched doorway she remembered, and this she took so fast that she was breathing fast when she tripped over the last of the stairs.

Elrond turned in surprise at the noise, and his eyes widened when he finally saw her. "You are back," he said softly.

"I'm back."

The silence hung heavy between them, and Fiona was aware of how loud her breathing sounded after her undignified sprint up through the castle grounds. She'd practically leapt off the old stone bench and left a stunned Lindir and merrily cackling Glorfindel behind.

"I had—" She cleared her throat and started again. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have sworn at you and—I shouldn't have said all the things I did. What I did was next-level immature." Her voice came out much more steady than she felt. The surprise had disappeared from the Elf-lord's dark eyes and they were now unreadable. "I promise I don't usually have outbursts like that." Fiona swallowed, now unable to meet Elrond's gaze. "I'm just really sorry."

To her surprise, Elrond's eyes welled up, and in two long strides he had reached her and his warm arms were folding her into a tight embrace.

 _Oh gods, I'm crying again._

" _Avo, muin nin_ ," he was saying softly, _no, my dear one_ , and his fingers went to stroke her hair, which just made tears start rolling down her cheeks to soak into his shoulder. "No, the fault lies with me. I made you a promise, and I failed to keep it. I failed to protect you altogether." His embrace tightened around her as though to shield her from the world; but his voice was full of regret and anger directed at himself.

"It's not your fault," protested Fiona, extricating herself from his warm coat and looking up into his stern, sad face. "Well, not completely. No one saw that vampire attack coming. And I get that whatever happened at that meeting this morning, you were just trying to protect me."

She gave a shaky sigh. "I haven't been here for long, but I know what's at stake. You've worked hard to keep your place in Middle-Earth, and the world is changing at a pace more rapid than history has ever seen. Visiting this guy in Oxford who reckons he knows who you are carries a huge risk. I don't have much experience in underground politics and I doubt I could last long in a physical fight if there was an ambush involved. There's a chance I would slow everyone down. I get why you didn't want me to go."

Her tears were drying, but Elrond's hands were holding her face, one thumb wiping away the remaining dampness on her cheek. "Maybe all that is true," he said, voice soft and deep. "But it is not the destiny of Lúthien's heirs to lead ordinary lives. I should know – I am one." He smiled when she laughed a little. It was a wonderful sight, his smile – his eyes were alive with kindness. All the warmth she had lost came creeping back. "It would be gravely wrong of me to turn back on a word already given, and graver still to hinder one of our blood from going in search of her own purpose."

It was such a different exchange to their last one, where their words were flying like darts at one another, angry and bitter.

"And that is why," Elrond said, looking down at her with dark eyes at last revealing the true depth of his care for her, "I want you to go."

Fiona stammered for a moment. "But—"

"As you said, perhaps you have no experience in these matters. But the fact that you have considered them at all shows that you are willing to take responsibility for yourself. You are a woman, young yet grown." He gave a rueful chuckle. "I think perhaps that I was unwilling to think of you as being anything other than the little girl with red-brown braids your mother sent me a picture of so many years ago."

"My mum sent you a picture?" Fiona wasn't expecting that.

"Yes. I did try and, er – what is the term? Stalk you on Facebook much later. But it appears that you protect your social media usage, and Daeron utterly refused to hack anything to allow me any further photographic representations of you."

"Um…" _Wow. My Elf-lord grandfather tried to Facebook stalk me._ "I might go and thank Daeron later."

Elrond actually laughed. "Well, yes, he was right to do what he did. But can you blame me for wanting to see my beloved granddaughter? I had already lost William, and I had largely lost your mother until those last few years. And there is a bond between those of Lúthien's line that ties each one of us together. For those of our line love fiercely – it is in our nature." His face sobered. "To be unable to see you or know anything of your life or even know what you looked like brought me more sorrow than I can say."

And he really did look so sad that Fiona snuggled right into his arms again. To her delight, he hugged her back without any of the reserve and hesitation that had been there between them at the beginning.

"I'm just happy to have my _daeradar_ back," she whispered. "Even if I haven't had you long."

"And I am very happy to have my granddaughter back," he replied into her hair. His voice rumbled against her. "Even if she is all grown and has a long road ahead of her and I cannot hold her back from it."

"That doesn't mean I don't want your advice, though." She stood back and smiled. "I could do with some wisdom every now and then."

As it turned out, Elrond's wisdom decreed that Fiona would go with his most trusted members of Rivendell's old council to Oxford. And so she found herself on the next cold dawn throwing her things together and, shivering her way downstairs, meeting Lindir and Glorfindel at the whispering front doors of the castle.

* * *

 _A/N: So I've noticed that a lot of you guys are totally shipping Fiona/Lindir (which makes me so happy!) and I've even heard some names that people have come up with for them:_

 _Liona_

 _Findir_

 _Fiondir_

 _Lindona_

 _Who's your favourite couple so far? ...Not that we've had that many. And possibly not quite including Glorfindel and his little almost-hook-up in the library before finding Daeron hanging upside-down. Let me reframe that. Who's your favourite Tolkien couple?_

 _Honestly, thank you all so very much for your awesome reviews. It's been just over two years since I began writing this story and I couldn't have done it without your encouragement and suggestions. 3_


End file.
